


Blood, Sweat and Strippers

by KiliMouse



Category: British Actor RPF, Hiddlebatch, The Hobbit (2012) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, Benedict is awkward, Comfort Sex, First Date, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Food Sex, Hurt/Comfort, I am sorry Benedict, I guess you could call it Nobbage, I'm not sure why, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Matt Smith is the bad guy, Minor Character Death, Multi, Noel Fielding and a cabbage, Oral Sex, Pole Dancing, RPF, Ridiculous amounts of supporting characters, Romance, Shower Sex, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Threesome - M/M/M, Tom Hiddleston is a total gentleman, Work In Progress, cameo by Ben Willbond in chapter 13, cameos by Robert Pattinson and Jack Whitehall in chapter 12, mix ALL the fandoms, potential love triangle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 22:43:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 73,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiliMouse/pseuds/KiliMouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard Armitage owns a strip club in which Benedict is a bartender and Tom and Dean are strippers. Aidan Turner is a boy in trouble, and it all gets a bit out of hand from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Holly for about 50% of the creative input here (makes it sound so professional!) and I apologise for the collective outpourings of our combined brains. I hope it is at least mildly entertaining. Nobody in this story belongs to me, unfortunately, and if they ever saw this I just hope they'd forgive me.

Pounding music and the glow of strobe lights under the door gave Armitage’s the appearance of more or less any other nightclub, and that was perfectly fine, nothing wrong with blending in, but the owner, Richard Crispin Armitage, 41, devilishly handsome businessman and semi-professional seducer, was extremely proud of running an above-average establishment behind those ordinary looking doors.  
“You’re looking particularly pensive tonight,” he said, reaching over the bar to push his empty glass at the barman. Benedict was a thoughtful looking man, long faced but striking, who enjoyed his work and the company it brought, but was plagued by feelings of inadequacy and shyness which meant he never took up the boss’ offer of doing a turn up on the stage with the other boys.  
Oh, perhaps I should mention- Armitage’s was the most exclusive, super-selective male strip joint in the city.  
“I just have a funny feeling about tonight,” shrugged Benedict, refilling the glass. He gazed towards the stage, on which a group of four extremely flexible, dashingly good looking men were strutting their stuff. Richard followed the gaze.  
“Oh, Ben. Just go and tell him you like him, for pity’s sake,” he said with an exasperated smile.  
“What? No!” exclaimed the bartender, a blush spreading across high cheekbones and tinting the tips of his ears.  
“He’s not going to laugh at you,” Richard assured him. “He’s a stripper, I don’t think he’d try and claim the moral high ground even if you outright propositioned him.”  
“I c-can’t just-“ Benedict fairly spluttered, and rushed off to mix some cocktails for an Italian and his boyfriend at the other end of the bar. Richard gave a low chuckle and watched his boys sashaying off the stage, ready to let the next lot do their thing. A particularly pretty fair haired one with curls and large blue eyes approached him, smiling as he shrugged on a jacket.  
“Hullo,” he greeted Richard. “I’m just off on my break. Be back in ten.”  
“Sure,” said Richard. “Oh, and Hiddleston?”  
“Yes?”  
“Don’t go too far from the building.”  
“Ok. I won’t.”  
He disappeared out the side door and down the fire escape steps, and barely had he stepped outside than Richard fairly hollered across the room to attract Benedict’s attention. The barman came over, and Richard grinned at him.  
“Benedict, my good man, he’s just gone on his break. I told him not to go too far. This is your moment, my lad,” he said, still smiling at the terrified looking barman. Benedict tried to speak, squawked instead, and Richard slapped him on the shoulder. “Go get him, tiger,” he cried. “I’ll hold the fort here.”  
“But you’re-“  
“The boss,” said Richard smoothly, “and I’m telling you to go after him. So hop to it!”

***

Benedict stumbled out the door and nearly landed on the blonde as he sat on the steps.  
“Oh good heavens, I’m terribly sorry, I do apologise,” burbled the blonde, at the same time benedict gabbled “Oh gosh, I’m sorry, entirely my fault, I wasn’t looking…”  
Once the supply of apologies had been exhausted, the blonde- his name was Tom Hiddleston- tried to make conversation, because Benedict was just sort of gawping, fishlike, at him.  
“Were you- looking for anyone?” he enquired.  
“Er- no. I- cigarette break- I-“ floundered Benedict.  
“Oh, here, let me,” said Tom, producing a lighter from the hastily donned leather jacket. Benedict let him light the cigarette with something akin to adoration in his eyes.  
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Benedict managed at last, after several draws on the cigarette.  
“Oh, “ Tom laughed, “ I don’t. But I like to be useful to anyone who does. It comes in handy to carry a lighter.”  
Benedict nearly swooned.  
“I say,” he said, and then stopped.  
“Yes?” Tom encouraged him.  
Then, just at the crucial moment Benedict was about to boldly ask Tom out for dinner with him, the sound of a scuffle above them, several crunches of bone and groans of pain, shattered the atmosphere, then the man fell off the roof.  
Nobody knew there was a man on the roof- well, he wasn’t any more- but it wasn’t entirely implausible, because the club and its adjoining buildings all had fire escape stairs on the top floor and it was a simple matter, say if you wanted to watch fireworks for free, to swing up onto the roof, and you could even cross a good stretch of the city in this manner. None of that really mattered now though; what mattered was that the man had landed on Tom, who was becoming rather accustomed to this.  
“I am so dreadfully sorry,” he began, but the other man just groaned in such a ghastly way that Tom postponed his apology and instead looked at Benedict with wide, serious eyes, and said “we should get him indoors”. The sound of footsteps on the roof made him look sharply up.  
“Idiot!” hissed someone. “You weren’t meant to push him off!”  
“Fuck,” said someone else, and the footsteps began running. Benedict, who was stronger, had already hauled the casualty from Tom’s legs, and Tom, who was faster, was up on the roof in an instant, racing after the attackers in the dark.  
***

Richard hadn’t expected Benedict back so soon, and certainly not with a battered, dark haired man draped across him.  
“Ben?” he exclaimed. “What happened to-“  
“This man fell off the roof and Tom’s chasing the others,” Benedict gasped out.  
“Oh, hell,” said Richard. “Here, let me help.” He was several years Benedict’s senior but also considerably bulkier, because he was a vain bastard and had a gym installed in his house a few streets away. Usually, though, he slept in the flat above the club- the space that used to be the attic- in case he was needed, so that is where he and Benedict hauled their now unconscious guest to. They laid him out on Richard’s bed, and Richard sent the barman back to work because a) people wanted drinks and b) he’s taken rather a fancy to the lad in his bedroom.

***  
Benedict re-entered the club and nearly collided with one of the other dancers on his break, Dean. He was as blonde and as handsome as Tom, but not curly haired, and not English. He came from new Zealand, and added a touch of exotica to the club’s line-up.  
“Who was that?” asked Dean.  
“I don’t know, we just found him. I think he’s been mugged,” said benedict.  
“Is he alright?” demanded Dean.  
“I hope so,” said Benedict. “Richard’s with him now.”  
“Oh,” said Dean. “Right. He’s very pretty, isn’t he?”  
“Who, Richard?”  
“Er- well, yes, I suppose- but I meant the boy,” said Dean.  
“Yes, he is rather,” agreed Benedict. “I think that’s what Richard thought too.”

***  
Richard thought precisely that. The boy- he looked to be maybe in his mid-twenties- was beautiful, even unconscious and bleeding. Perhaps, a small part of Richard thought, it added to his beauty, but a much bigger and more demanding part of him didn’t care to reason, he wanted the boy, and badly. He was dark haired, slim, athletic looking with a dusting of dark stubble along a strong jaw, which looked delicious. A blossoming bruise on one cheek marred his olive skin, and cuts decorated his pretty face, and faint red patches seeped through his ripped white t-shirt, making him look rugged despite the prettiness. He was gorgeous.  
Richard leant over him and dabbed at the bloodied places with a damp flannel, and as he touched skin, the boy groaned and opened his eyes. It was like a punch of lust to the gut and nearly made Richard shudder; the eyes were chocolate coloured, hazy and confused, scared and wounded. For a moment, Richard fought between the urge to cuddle and reassure the poor boy, and the urge to fuck him senseless through the mattress. Of course, the first urge won out. Richard wasn’t that sort of a man, but fuck was this kid a beauty!  
“How’re you feeling? It’s alright, you’re safe,” he said, in his most reassuring voice. His natural baritone made the whole thing sound a lot more sexual than he had intended. “What happened, by the way? My boys didn’t make it quite clear.”  
“Your boys? Wha-“ croaked the boy, and, joy of delicious joys, he was Irish. Richard smiled down at him.  
“My barman, to be precise. You’re in a club- which I own, by the way, I’m Richard. Richard Armitage- and you’ve got a nasty bruise and a split lip and I haven’t even seen what they did to the rest of you.”  
“Oh,” said the boy. A glint came into his eyes. “Would you like to?” Pause. “My name’s Aidan Turner.” He sat up a little, and made an attempt to wriggle out of his tattered t-shirt.  
“Here, “ said Richard. “Let me.”  
He eased the shirt up Aidan’s body, revelling in each inch of olive skin it revealed. Aidan raised his arms helpfully at the appropriate moment, and then he was bare chested and dark-eyed, gazing at the man he’s only met seconds ago as he stood millimetres away from him, so close their breath mingled as it sped up. Richard felt a momentary pang of guilt, because the boy was hurt and vulnerable, but Aidan’s eyes held a kind of dare, a “come and get me or regret it forever” that Richard could not resist. He ran a finger along one fine cheekbone, carefully avoiding the bruised area. Aidan closed his eyes and sighed, shuddering.  
“You know,” Richard murmured, “you really are spectacularly handsome.”  
Deep brown eyes opened and gazed into piercing blue ones, and Aidan leant in.  
“And you are really fucking hot,” he whispered, and took Richard’s lower lip between his perfect white teeth, following it with a warm wet tongue and then a hand in the older man’s dark hair. Richard let a small, low moan escape him, then his free hand found its way into the dark tangle of curls of the other man, and he kissed him back like he might never breathe again.

***  
Downstairs, Tom had just returned- Benedict had nearly driven himself sick with worry, so Dean and one of their regulars, Martin Freeman, had gone out to look for him. Martin was a short, pugnacious man who would fight anyone tooth and claw for a friend, and he also had a bet on how soon it would be before Benedict and Tom got together, so he had a vested interest in seeing the blonde returned safely.  
“We got him, he’s here!” Dean cried triumphantly, dragging a breathless, wild-haired Tom in with him.  
“I was so worried-“ blurted Benedict, and Martin grinned. “I mean- you’re back. That’s good. Isn’t it, Dean?”  
Dean nodded, but his eyes kept wandering to the steps leading to Richard’s flat.  
“I wonder how they’re getting on,” he said wistfully.  
“Or off,” suggested someone, chuckling. Dean made a noise in the back of his throat and ordered a large vodka and orange.  
“I’ll go up and check on them,” said Tom, sensing Dean’s distress. He trotted off up the staircase and poked his head round the door. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said in a hushed voice, in case Aidan was sleeping.  
Richard pulled away just in time and seized the flannel again, dabbing vaguely at Aidan’s chest with it.  
“Oh,” he said casually, looking up, “Hiddleston, this is Aidan. This is one of the boys who rescued you.” There was barely time for Tom to open his mouth before Richard was sending him away again, waving a hand at the door. “You get back to the others, we’re fine, Aidan’s fine, everything’s good,” he said. Tom, ever the polite gentleman, remembered to close the door on his way out, and no sooner had it clicked than Aidan was at Richard’s neck, teeth nipping his desire into the soft skin there, needy and desperately aroused.  
“Everything’s good, Aidan’s fine,” Tom relayed to a disheartened looking Dean. “They’re just- cleaning him up. Cleaning Aidan up.” Pause. “They’re not- you know- fornicating.” Despite taking his clothes off for a living, Tom was surprisingly delicate in his speech. Dean’s face fell further at the word. Tom sighed. “Come on, Deano. We’ve got punters to entertain.” Dean followed him reluctantly back up to the stage.  
*** 

Upstairs, Aidan had finally managed to get his shaking fingers around the zipper of Richard’s exquisitely tailored jeans and because Richard was the sort of smooth motherfucker who could function perfectly well without underwear, found the exquisitely hot, hard cock beneath, leaking already and twitching up into Aidan’s long-fingered palm.  
“Mmmf- ahh,” Richard managed, pushing Aidan back onto the bed and arranging himself alongside the younger man, making sure not to hurt any of his injured patches. “Yeah, that’s good. OH!” Aidan let those chocolate eyes flicker from Richard’s own to his cock now gripped tightly and expertly by those sinful fingers which moved in a rhythm Richard couldn’t pretend to stand for long, and when Aidan somehow got his own trousers open and rubbed himself against Richard while jerking him off, it was all over in a haze of groans and cursing breathy Irish against Richard’s ear.  
They slumped back in a tangle of dark hair and damp flesh, panting and blissful, and Aidan cheekily nipped the older man’s ear.  
“Just what the doctor would have ordered, if you’d bothered to call one, right?” he teased breathlessly. Richard had no reply to filth like that, just let out a breathy laugh.  
“You will stay here tonight, won’t you?” he murmured, some moments later.  
“Try and stop me,” said Aidan happily, running his hands along Richard’s chest- which, he noticed suddenly, was still shirt-clad and this was entirely unfair and would have to be rectified next round.  
***

The club closed in the early hours of the morning, and this time Benedict closed it up himself, not bothering to disturb Richard to tell him, or say goodbye. He was a good-hearted man, and also, almost squeamishly worried about people having sex. The other boys left, tired but exhilarated and ready to sleep until midday; usually Benedict would have gone along with them, got a kebab and felt included in the group, but Dean was moping over a man he’d seen for a split-second and Tom was a good friend and so he’d taken Dean home, wrapping him in a brotherly hug and a veritable bubblewrap of comforting words. That meant that Benedict had no chance that night, and he had a little cry into a tumbler of whiskey, then stretched out on one of the snazzy leather sofas Richard had insisted were a good investment for the club. He bunched up his jacket under his head and closed weary eyes, a hot little tear squeezing out before he could stop it. He had just dozed off and placed one foot over the threshold of dreamworld, when a loud animalistic moan rent the air.  
“Oh! Aidan! Fuck!”  
“Deeper- uh- yes- Ri-“  
Benedict sat bolt upright, blinked several times, and let out a small whine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the night before!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own any characters in this fic, and this is for the best.

Aidan awoke to sun streaming in through the curtains, and an empty space in the bed beside him. He didn’t panic though, because if anyone should be doing a runner it should be him; they were, after all, in Richard’s own bed.  
Nevertheless, when the sleep-dazed and very naked figure of the older man appeared from the little kitchenette to the side of the bedroom, Aidan let out a little sighing breath he didn’t realise he had been holding in.  
“Morning, beautiful,” Richard greeted him, his voice even more gravelly than usual from the short time he’d been awake. Bless the man, he’d actually made tea and toast for his guest- though guest seemed horribly formal after the passionate abandon of a few hours previously. Lovers, surely, would be more appropriate. “I thought you might want breakfast- after last night’s exertions.” His lips twitched in a half smirk, but as he set down the tray, pulled back the duvet and climbed back into the cosy cocoon of bedclothes, there was nothing in his pale eyes but softness and affection. He noted with a wistful tug in his chest the way they seemed to fit together, perfectly comfortable with warm skin on colder, and dark hair tangled together as Aidan dropped his head to Richard’s shoulder and began licking the sensitive spot under his left ear which, he had discovered last night, made Richard mewl and cry out in a most delightful manner. It was almost like they’d knew each other, properly, not just intimately. Aidan relished the closeness as he reached for the tray on the bedside table and picked up a mug of steaming hot tea.  
“Mmm,” he said appreciatively.  
“So, how’s the sore arse?” asked Richard, casually.  
Aidan spat tea over himself, and some over Richard’s thigh. He wasn’t usually scandalised by such questions- when one has had a considerably sized cock in one’s behind, it seems only courteous for the owner of the appendage to ask about one’s state the morning after- but it seemed so incongruous in the otherwise romantic setting.   
“Bearable,” he choked. “Oh fuck, sorry Richard!”  
“Don’t worry about it,” Richard smiled lazily, trailing a hand up the warm inside of Aidan’s thigh. “Just means I’ll have to take a shower a bit earlier than I planned to.” Aidan still looked guilty. Richard kissed him. “You coming?”  
***

Leather sofas were all very well for getting off on, decided Benedict, but sleeping on them was another matter altogether. The poor barman had passed an uncomfortable night with his lanky frame trying, in various unnatural contortions, to fit itself on the slippery sofa and his brain trying to block out the ecstatic noises emanating from above. When he at last slipped into dreamworld, it was to see om cavorting in a pair of red lace knickers with another man, who, when he turned around, smirking, turned out to be Dean.  
Hardly surprising, then, that the first thing Benedict did when he awoke in the morning was get himself a large glass from the bar, fill it, and down it in one go. Then, he looked at himself in the mirrors in the toilets, decided that his face looked even more idiotically equine than usual, and had a little cry. It was quite ten minutes before he bothered to look at his phone, and when he did he almost dropped it into the sink: three missed calls, and a text, from Tom!  
Benedict’s heart flipped. He sternly ordered it to calm down, and with shaking fingers most unbecoming in a bartender, he opened the message.  
“Are you ok? No one saw you leave, I was worried about you. Also, whatever you were going to say to me before Aidan fell on me, I’m sure it’s just as worth saying it today. Meet me for breakfast at Tennant’s? Say half ten? Tom xx.”  
He read it, and re-read it, and blinked something that was definitely not a tear out of his eye, and then read it a third time. Then he realised that a) he should reply and b) he looked a mess. The former was easily dealt with- he fired off a reply along the lines of “yes of course I’ll meet you, I love you, you’re beautiful” (but without the latter clauses) but the second meant he had to go home and spruce himself up. Usually he could ask to use Richard’s bathroom, it wasn’t a particularly big favour, but from what Benedict could hear, the bathroom was currently in use and Richard, groaning obscenely about how he wanted Aidan to “take it deeper” wouldn’t appreciate being interrupted any more than Benedict appreciated being reminded that people had sex lives.

*** 

Aidan sat sprawled against the wet wall of the shower, hair dripping from the jet of water and the corner of his mouth- not the edge still split from last night- decorated with a thin dribble of come he had not bothered to swallow. He looked filthy despite having just washed, and as Richard watched, poked out his pink tongue and lapped it up, catlike. Richard groaned and slumped down alongside him, settling his legs over Aidan’s and kissing his neck.  
“How long are you staying?” he asked at last, reluctantly.  
“You want me to go?” Aidan said. Richard kissed him again, leaving them both dizzy by the time he pulled back, and Aidan in no doubt as to his answer. “I-I’ll stay as long as you want me to. But I should go and change at least. You won’t want me in last night’s ripped up crap.”  
“Ripped up crap makes you even more fuckable,” murmured Richard, “but fair enough. Want a lift anywhere?”  
“You’d do that?” asked Aidan, a smile lighting up his whole face. He looked angelic, but the smile split his face and tugged at the sore lip. “Ow… fuck.”  
“Of course,” said Richard, and climbed out of the shower, wrapping a towel casually low around his hips. He passed one to Aidan, and found some spare clothes for him; it was strangely arousing to see the Irishman in one of his shirts. Aidan saw the look Richard gave him, and grinned impishly. “Right,” Richard said, tearing his eyes away. “ Ready to go?”

***   
On a busy street, it’s easy to miss those little independent eateries, surrounded by all the Pret-A-Mangers and Costas; it wasn’t easy, however, to miss Tennant’s Lounge. This was mainly because, while independent, it was certainly not little- in fact, it was huge, luxurious and reminiscent of establishments such as the Savoy. The owner was a sassy Scotsman by the name of David Tennant, who had been born David MacDonald- but as he pointed out to anyone who would listen, “starting up an eatery of any kind with a name like MacDonald was always going to be problematic”, so he’d changed it by deed poll so he could still have the honour of a named sign above the door.   
And on the menus.  
And the toilet paper.  
“Morning, Benedict,” David greeted him with a white toothed smile. “Your boy’s in, said he was meeting you?” He was clearly delighted, and fishing for details.  
“M-my boy?” stuttered Benedict. He liked David, but he could be overwhelming.  
“Well, Richard’s boy. One of Richard’s boys,” clarified David. “Said he was meeting you for breakfast.”  
“He is,” said Benedict, blushing furiously.  
“Ooh-ho-hooo!” crowed David, clapping his hands. “Sneaky Benedict! How long’s this been going on then?”  
Benedict spotted Tom and hurried away from David to join him at the table. He’d chosen a window table, and the sunlight streamed in through the glass pane and set his golden curls alight. He was clad in a casual shirt with the two top buttons undone, and long legs encased in slim fitting black suit trousers stretched beneath the table. He looked ethereal and unattainable and Benedict could almost feel himself falling further in love.  
“Benedict!” exclaimed Tom, beaming. “You look- lovely!” Benedict spluttered in response. “Tea or coffee? Or would you like to order food straight away? I’m paying, my treat.”  
“C-coffee, please,” said Benedict, and looked bashfully at the tablecloth. Tom waved at the nearest waiter and ordered their drinks, then folded his fingers together, leant forwards and twinkled his blue eyes endearingly at the other man.   
“Now,” he said. “About last night.”

***   
Aidan gave directions to his house, but Richard drove deliberately slowly, as if reluctant to let the Irishman go back to his previous life. Aidan had no intention of abandoning Richard, though, and told him so, peppered with kisses and giggling like a schoolgirl.  
“Here,” he said, sitting back and surveying the street looming ahead of them. “Number 43 is my house. Come in for a bit, unless you’re busy.”  
“I have an accounts meeting at half one,” shrugged Richard. “It’s not important. Of course I’ll come in, I’d love to.”  
Aidan led him up the pathway, and stopped dead in his tracks outside the faded green front door.  
“It’s-“ he said, almost inaudibly. “The door’s been forced.”  
Richard was by his side in an instant, blood running cold and protectiveness bubbling up in an almost volcanic resurgence.  
“Shall I call the police?” he asked, one hand on Aidan’s hip. “Should I-“  
“Could be nothing,” Aidan said, shaking his head. He seemed preoccupied, and stepped out of Richard’s touch, pushing open the door and stepping inside, eyes darting around. Richard suddenly felt very wary, and tense, and uncomfortable. He followed Aidan into the living room, and they both stopped in the doorway.  
There, on the faded sofa, sat a young man. He was angular, square-jawed and wore a trilby perched at a jaunty angle on his head, with a dark forelock poking out from beneath the brim. Red braces beneath a dapper black blazer gave him a playful air, and the cigar jammed between his teeth made him look like a child playing at dress-up.  
Despite this, however, he was somehow menacing. He gave a small, threatening smile, and took a long draw on the cigar. It made him cough the tiniest bit, but it was barely noticeable over the tension that filled the small room.  
Aidan broke the silence.  
“What the fuck,” he said, “are you doing here.”  
The young man grinned. Richard’s head felt light, began to swim.  
“You know this guy?” he asked in a low voice.  
“Hardly,” muttered Aidan, ice in his voice.  
“Oh, Mr Turner, always so uncivilised!” tutted the intruder. “Allow me, then, to introduce myself, since you won’t.” He stepped towards Richard, who had almost unconsciously positioned himself in front of Aidan, and smiled at the little movement. “So protective,” he murmured, seemingly ti himself. “Matt Smith, businessman.”  
“Pimp!” spat Aidan. Matt chuckled.  
“Oh, so dramatic,” he said. “Maybe you should explain things to your latest sugar daddy, Aidan.” Richard flinched at the use of the first name, somehow on the wrong side of intimate. “I think he should know what a filthy little whore his precious boy really is-“  
“Shut it, you!” snarled Aidan, goaded into speech. His voice was thick with emotion, and his accent the most pronounced that Richard had ever heard. It sent all kinds of shivers running up and down his spine. “He’s lying, Richard! He’s making it all up to ruin everything, because that’s what he does. Get out!” he suddenly shouted, slamming his fist against the wall. “Get out of my house and don’t threaten me again!”  
“Again?” Matt said, with exaggerated politeness. “This is only the beginning, Aidan. You’ll come crawling back soon enough, and then I won’t need to threaten you. Although I do concede that my boys got a little carried away last night; you’re no good to anyone with a broken back.” He dropped the cigar casually to the floor and watched it burn a small scorch mark into Aidan’s carpet, then made for the door. “Falling off a roof indeed. Dear me,” he mused, and left the house. Neither Aidan or Richard tried to stop him.  
The silence lasted for precisely five ticks of the clock on Aidan’s wall.  
Then-  
“What the hell just happened?” demanded Richard, in a dull, dark tone. “Sugar daddy? Whore? What’s going on, Aidan?”  
“It’s all a load of bullshit!” exploded Aidan, but after this outburst, the fight seemed to ebb from his frame and he slumped down on the carpet, staring dully at the scorch mark on the floor. “Oh hell,” he murmured. “I might as well say it… I’m jobless at the moment, have been for a few weeks. I was desperate! I decided the best option I had was to start hustling.”  
“Hustling,” Richard repeated. The word sounded alien- sure, he employed men to take their clothes off and ran a strip joint, but his boys were never expected to do anything more, nothing like Aidan was describing! “You mean-“  
“Prostitution,” Aidan said, the word sounding like damnation, so definite and uncompromising was it. “I was going to be a rent boy, Richard.” Pause. “Only, I never got that far- the patch I started walking was apparently part of gang territory. Matt’s gang. He’s basically a- y’know- some kind of English Mafia boss, and he farms people out and-“ he pulled a disgusted face- “takes a hefty cut of their earnings. He thought I’d be an asset- no pun intended- and he was very insulted when I said I was doing it for myself, out of desperation, and wanted nothing to do with his sordid business plans. But… he wouldn’t take no for an answer, said that me being on his turf basically made me one of his, even though hadn’t actually solicited anyone, or made any money or anything.”   
He was disgusted with himself and this was obvious in the way he spoke; he expected Richard to be repulsed too. Richard was a good man. When Richard didn’t speak, Aidan felt as if his heart was ripping itself in two; he had to fill the silent gap between them.  
“Too pretty for my own good, that’s what he said,” he carried out, barely audible. “It was a couple of his henchmen who got me up on that roof, battered me around a bit.”  
“I-“ began Richard, but Aidan burst out, interrupting him with a sudden frantic passion.  
“I’m sorry I got you mixed up in all this, Richard!” he cried. “I was going to move abroad anyway, but I don’t have the money just now, I don’t know what to do- no, don’t feel sorry for me, I can’t- I don’t-“ A small sob escaped him. Richard had an arm round him in an instant. Aidan raised a despairing face to look up at him, chocolate eyes wide and sad. “Do you hate me?” he whispered.  
Richard was horrified at the very thought.  
“Of course not,” he said vehemently. “Never! We’ll sort this out, Aidan. I promise you, we’ll sort it out.”

***   
“I was- goingtoaskyoutogooutfordinner…withme.”   
Back at Tennant’s , Benedict had finally- after a lot of encouragement and patient prompting from Tom, managed to get the words out. Tom beamed a beatific smile- almost like a proud parent, rather than a prospective lover, which reassured Benedict somewhat- and the barman nearly melted into his mocha.  
“Of course I will!” Tom said, enthusiastically. “Tell me a place and a time, and I’m all yours, Ben.”  
“I say- really?” Benedict was ecstatic. “You’d go on one? A date? With me, I mean?”  
Tom grinned, nodded, cocked his head thoughtfully.  
“In fact,” he said, “if you think about it, we’re on one right now.”  
“On a-“ Benedict said, almost in wonder.  
“Date,” Tom finished for him, and- was that a wink he just gave? It was! Tom had winked at him! Emboldened by the wink, Benedict made his bravest move yet.  
“In that case, would it-“ he began hesitantly, then cleared his throat. “Would you mind awfully if I kissed you?”  
Tom’s response came in the form of warm, soft lips pressed against Benedict’s mouth, which had barely closed from the last word he spoke, and the tiniest hint of tongue poked between the little gap. Benedict’s heart flipped and he forgot to breathe for a moment, until Tom sat back, smiling widely, licked that tongue round his lips almost unconsciously, and reminded him that breathing was rather important. In the doorway to the kitchen, David clapped his hands gleefully and let out a delighted whoop, then scurried off to phone Martin and tell him the grand news.  
Benedict gave a little breathy laugh, and when he looked around to see if anyone had noticed the most beautiful moment of his thirtysomething years on planet earth, he spotted Dean just coming in from the street. He was still giddy from the kiss, and the next words came out without him really realising.  
“I had a dream where you did it with Dean in a pair of red lace knickers,” he said. “Oh- no- I mean-“  
Tom raised an eyebrow, the only indication of his surprise. He waved Dean over to their table, still feeling sorry for the dejected New Zealander.  
“Dean’s a very handsome man,” he said, “but I’d rather have you. However, if red lace knickers is your thing…”  
Benedict let out a small squawk, and Tom winked again, then turned his attention to Dean.  
“Morning, Deano,” he greeted the other man. “Let me get you some coffee, you look like you could use it.”  
Dean mumbled an assent, then said something about using the bathroom and wandered off. Tom turned excitedly to Benedict.  
“Ben, I‘ve got an idea,” he whispered. “I hate seeing Dean so down, and since I’ve got you and you’ve got me, I think we should do the boy a favour. I think we should hook him up with Aidan!”  
Benedict hated to be a party pooper, but-  
“I hate to be a party pooper,” said he, “but what about Richard?”  
“Richard’s a thoroughly open minded man,” grinned Tom mischievously. “Benedict, have you ever heard the term ménage a trois…?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so this is where it's basically just a gratuitous threesome scene, and may the fandom deities forgive me!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own any of these characters, I'm just a humble fanficcer.

Dean wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here.  
Literally speaking, it was fairly obvious- he had got a cab to Richard’s house, where he had found Aidan sitting with the older man drinking whiskey, then they’d gone upstairs to the magnificently luxurious master bedroom and things were even more obvious from thereonwards- but in terms of how things had progressed, what thought processes had led him here…well, he supposed he owed Tom and Benedict a really rather large thank you!

*** 

He’d come back from the bathroom at Tennant’s Lounge and found the two of them huddled together, Benedict practically in Tom’s lap, both wide eyed and with twitching smiles that tugged at the edges of mouths they tried to control, but failed; it was obvious to anyone who cared to look that they were Up To Something. Occasionally a small giggle would bubble forth, and they would look into the other’s eyes and smile sweetly. Dean didn’t have a clue what they were planning, but it made him wary. Being wary meant his mind was taken off Aidan, and what his boss might be doing to Aidan, so that was a good thing.  
“You two couldn’t look innocent if you tried,” he had said, sliding into the seat recently vacated by Tom and warming his hands on the coffee he had ordered for him. “What are you up to?”  
“Nothing!” Benedict had blurted, far too quickly. Dean gave him an extremely disbelieving eyebrow quirk.  
“No, really, nothing,” Tom had backed him up. “So. Deano. What are your plans for the day?”  
“Sleeping,” Dean had replied glumly, staring into his drink. “I shouldn’t even be awake right now.”  
“Oh, don’t say that!” Tom had exclaimed, and gestured to the window. “Not when it’s such a beautiful day! Anything could happen on a day like today!”  
Dean had regarded him silently and suspiciously, but he couldn’t work it out.  
“Definitely up to something,” was all he’d said.   
Somehow, by the time he had finished his coffee, Tom had ever-so-casually suggested going to see Richard, and added “we might as well see how Aidan is doing, too” and then Benedict, who Dean hadn’t even noticed leaving the table, popped his head round the door and announced that their taxi was outside, and Tom had a firm grip on Dean’s elbow and escorted him firmly out into the aforementioned taxi and spent the whole ride texting secretively on his phone. When the cab pulled up at Richard’s house- his actual house, the big house with the security cameras and high wall around the garden and the chequered hallway floor which blinded you when the sun shone in at the right angle- Dean had let out a small noise. Tom flashed white teeth at him, and ushered him out of the cab.  
“Go look for Richard,” he said. Dean had wandered into the living room and found it empty, and felt awkward and invasive going into any of the other rooms so he just sat down on the settee and fidgeted. He heard voices murmuring in the hall, and got up again, pacing awkwardly near to the door to try and peep at the speakers.  
“And you’re sure…” Richard was saying, voice so low it was almost a purr. “You’re definitely-“  
“Positive,” Tom murmured back. “It will all be fine. Ben and I will leave you now.”  
Dean started. What the-  
The door clicked smartly shut, and Tom was gone. Richard stood alone in the hallway, took a deep breath and stepped into the living room.  
“Sir, I-“ began Dean. It was a thing that the boys all did, referred to Richard as Sir or Mr Armitage, despite being on close friendly terms. Richard placed a finger over his lips and Dean’s heart skipped a beat.  
“I’m not Sir for now,” he said, his baritone going straight to Dean’s groin. “And you’re not O’Gorman. We are Richard and Dean, and there’s someone I want you to meet, and meet properly.”  
Dean’s heart flipped again, and then he was following Richard- your boss, his brain screamed at him- up the plush staircase and into the master bedroom where the curtains were drawn close, blocking out the sunlight with their red velvet luxuriousness . The bed held centre stage, adorned with enough blankets and cushions to drown a small princess, but that wasn’t why Dean’s eyes were drawn to it so magnetically.  
Richard approached the figure on the bed, ran a hand through tousled brown curls, and planted a soft kiss to the exposed olive-skinned neck.  
“Aidan,” he practically vibrated the word, “there’s someone I want you to meet.”

***  
“We just set up a threesome,” Benedict said, awestruck, as they walked up the street. “We just- I don’t- do you normally do things like that?” he asked suddenly.  
“No,” admitted Tom. “I guess you just make me that little bit crazy.”

*** 

Aidan sat up, propped himself on his elbow, and stared through the shadows at the golden haired angel Richard had brought in with him. He had heard a vague plan to do something “different”, but considering he’d just started a sexual relationship with a man he’d known for five minutes before their first encounter, “different” had somewhat lost its meaning. He hadn’t expected “different” to be hot.  
“Isn’t he beautiful?” Richard murmured, digging his fingers into Aidan’s scalp, massaging through the long unruly locks. “He wants you, Aidan. He’s come here for you.” Aidan leant up into the caress and let out a whimper, and stretched out a hand. The blonde looked nervously from Aidan to the man behind him, who obviously gave some sign of approval because the man approached, sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. Richard withdrew his hand and stepped back, Aidan whining at the loss. “This is Dean. He’s one of my boys,” he said. “But for now… he’s all yours.”  
Aidan sat up properly at this, and found himself nose to nose with the other man.  
“He is beautiful,” he murmured, and glanced sideways to Richard, unsurprised but nonetheless aroused by the sight of him sat back in a plush armchair by the bed, hand working at the fly of his jeans already.  
“You are- breathtaking,” said the blonde. Aidan’s jaw dropped at the voice. “I-“  
Aidan’s mouth sealed over Dean’s in an instant, cupping a hand round the back of his neck and pulling him down to lay on top of him. There was no talking for quite some time, just the wet sounds of tongues in mouths which didn’t usually house them, and the soft rustling of fabric being removed from hot, lithe bodies. Aidan had just edged his hand inside Dean’s trousers when the soft order came, unmistakably authoritative but breathy with desire.  
“Stop.”  
Both boys looked sideways at Richard, a tangle of brown and blonde and brightly shining eyes in the shadow. He was leaning back, but the tension thrumming in his body betrayed his highly strung state; that and the fact that his hand was already inside his jeans, palming at his cock as if he just couldn’t wait for the show.  
“Sit up, I want to see you,” came the rest of the order. Dean sat up, pulled Aidan up with him, and set to work removing the Irishman’s shirt with only his teeth, his hands busy on the fastenings of indecently tight jeans. “Oh fuck, that’s better. That’s good, that’s better.”   
Dean gave up on being delicate with his teeth when Aidan scratched his nails down his back and cursed softly into his neck, and ripped desperately at the shirt. They wrestled for dominance for a moment, biting and scratching and panting into the other’s mouth, then Dean won and got Aidan on his back again. Aidan went limp, eyes flickering closed for a moment, and smirked.  
“You got me. What are you gonna do to me now?” he whispered. Dean gazed down at him, almost too lust-fogged to even reply, and then Richard’s voice cut in again and he didn’t have to.  
“Make him come apart,” he said, his voice cracking with arousal, “and then we’ll make him come.”  
Dean latched onto Aidan’s neck almost viciously, leaving teeth marks in his wake. He pinned one of Aidan’s wrists above him, then began licking a trail down his jawline, the stubble scratchy on his tongue, along the long exposed column of neck, then biting at well-defined collarbones.  
“Don’t move,” he breathed, releasing the wrist to slide further down Aidan’s twitching body. He licked over the fading bruises, still visible under the dark hair covering Aidan’s chest, with gentleness and concern, and lapped at each nipple with a smirk, then pinching and licking each one soothingly before moving downwards. Aidan kept his freed hand above his head, clenching it into the sheets and biting his lip as Dean edged ever closer to his pulsing erection, poking its leaking head obscenely over his tugged-down jeans. “Don’t-“  
As Dean edged his full, wet lips over the equally full, wet head of Aidan’s dick, the sound of Aidan’s mewling gasp coincided with the sound of Richard’s hand speeding up, the obscene sound of flesh on flesh, and desperate panting, filling the room. Aidan tried his best not to thrust up- he wanted to be a good boy, really he did- but Dean had a wicked tongue which he swiped teasingly over the slit, and- well- he couldn’t help it. He jerked his hips up, and Dean pulled off with a wet pop, his face catching a smear of pre-come, which in turn caught the flicker of light through the curtains and glistened in an otherworldly manner.  
“Bad boy,” Richard said, and stood up, shucking his clothes as he joined them on the bed. “Bad, Aidan. Dean told you not to move.” Dean raised questioning eyes to the older man, all authority and muscle and predatory smouldering. “Carry on,” he said, and proceeded to sit Aidan up, pinning his arms behind his back. Aidan whined. “Take your time. He doesn’t get to decide anything this time round.”  
Within minutes, Aidan was a shivering, trembling wreck. Dean felt a twinge of guilt for being such a monumental tease, but the way Richard gazed at Aidan with such blazing emotion in those blue eyes, and the trust in Aidan’s, drove him on, and when Aidan came with a cry, it contained both their names, and Richard dragged him up the bed straight away to kiss him senseless, after which they collapsed in a boneless, sticky heap.  
“You didn’t- you haven’t,” mumbled Aidan. Richard shushed him.  
“There’s always round two,” he said.

*** 

There wasn’t much for either Benedict or Tom to do that could be called obligatory. They were not working until the evening, and anything they needed to do could be, and was, swept away as “I’ll do it later” so that they could spend more time together. Tom was particularly keen to set a date for their dinner together, breakfast seemingly only whetting his appetite for more in every sense, but Benedict had a distinct lack of experience in organising dates and grew bashful whenever Tom mentioned it.  
At last, having wandered round town and ended up in a park, by the lake- a setting that had never seemed romantic to Benedict until he found himself sitting there alongside Tom- he decided he needed to come clean.  
“I can’t- I’m not very good at this,” he admitted, awkwardly staring at the grass. “I would love you to come for dinner with me- say tomorrow evening, I’ll get someone to cover me and I know it’s your night off- not that I know your schedule, that would be stalkery, I just mean that- well it’s been a while- and Richard tends to tell me these thi-“  
Tom’s warm fingers suddenly traced his jaw, which went slack, eliminating any further burbling.  
“Yes,” he said, simply. “There’s that new Italian place just out of town. Do you want to book the table or shall I?”  
“I- I can do that,” said Benedict, feeling like he ought to do something. “And Tom?”  
“Yes, beautiful?” Tom said, and Benedict forgot what he was going to say.  
“I don’t get called beautiful,” he said, wide eyed. “I look like a horse.”  
“Well then that’s a crime,” announced Tom. “You are beautiful, and I shall keep telling you so until everything else becomes irrelevant.” He nuzzled into the other man’s neck, leaving light butterfly kisses on pale skin, and then made a small neighing noise which turned into a boyish giggle. “And horses are my favourite animal,” he added, happily.

*** 

Time enough had passed that Aidan was coherent again, and, perhaps more importantly, when Richard ran a hand down his side and between his thighs, he began to grow hot and hard immediately, his breathing speeding up and his eyes falling shut.  
“Uh- oh yeah-“ he breathed, and then Richard murmured something hotly into the shell of Dean’s ear, and warm fingers slipped between Aidan’s lips. He started licking them automatically, swirling his tongue around each digit lovingly and sucking like his life depended on it.  
“You ready?” Dean asked, and he managed to nod. Dean pulled his hand free from Aidan’s eager mouth and ran them down the inside of the Irishman’s thighs, which fell apart wantonly at the sensation. Richard was still gently stroking Aidan’s cock, running a finger along his balls and generally being a complete tease, and his other hand drizzled warmed lube around the Irishman’s perineum as Dean’s first finger breached the pucker. “You’re so…tight…” breathed Dean. Aidan made an attempt to answer but sounded like an animal in pain. Dean shot a worried glance at Richard.  
“He’ll tell you to stop if it gets too much,” the older man assured Dean, with a glinting smile. “But I doubt it will be, it’s amazing what this one can take.” The second and third fingers followed with surprising ease; Aidan was tight, sure, but he’d had enough practise to loosen up pretty fast by now. His whole body tensed and he let out a gasp of pure bliss as one crooked finger found his prostate, which Richard took as his cue to climb off the bed and fetch the condom packet from somewhere on the dressing table.   
He rolled one onto himself and then, because Aidan was being extremely pampered, rolled one onto his cock too, ready for Dean should he choose to get involved. Then, common sense somehow managing to get through the fog of “I want to be in Aidan’s arse”, he chucked the bottle of lube Dean’s way too, and muttered something in Aidan’s ear about not being selfish, and helping Dean out. Aidan made a complaining noise, but then Richard’s blunt cockhead nudged insistently at his hole and he pushed back on it, letting out needy little cries. Dean, being perfectly capable and more than willing to lube up his own entrance, breached himself with the hand that hadn’t been in Aidan, not rushing it but at the same time, turned on to the point of insanity by the frankly whoreish little moans Aidan emitted, and the filth Richard rasped into his ear as he undulated into that hot, lithe body.  
“Dean, Dean, come on- I wanna- want to be inside you- so hot- need you- oh fuck yes HARDER Richard- uh- Dean!” Aidan had decided it was time to move things on. Adding his own slick finger to Dean’s hole, and finding it satisfactorily loose, he lined himself up and was inside in one smooth but burning movement that made Dean see stars and momentarily forget to breathe. “I’m in!” Aidan gasped, deliriously, and a low rumbling filthy laugh from Richard had him snapping his hips forwards and quite literally fucking Dean into the mattress, pressed face down into the sheets under the weight of two sinfully attractive men, both of whom were getting close from the change in their grunts and sloppiness of their thrusts.  
Aidan fumbled around between Dean’s legs, a hot, sticky hand finding a grip on his erection at last and tugging at it almost too hard to be pleasurable. He redeemed himself with a gentle cupping of Dean’s heavy balls, and then all three seemed to be climaxing in a veritable explosion of come, and meaningless noise. Dean was in danger of suffocating under his two lovers, but they managed to haul themselves off, and Richard drew both the boys into his arms, letting them rest their weary heads on his sweat slicked, well-muscled chest. Dean was suddenly struck by the fact he’d just had a threeway with his boss, and also he was working in the evening, but it didn’t seem to bother Richard, so he gave Aidan a lazy kiss across the Englishman’s chest, and lay back, blissful.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mat Baynton (from Horrible Histories) is introduced and Richard is a snappy bastard, although it's all for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my characters, fortunately for them.  
> Also, anyone who hasn't yet watched Horrible Histories really ought to give it a try, if only to acquaint themselves with Mat's beautiful eyes as mentioned here.

“You know what,” said Richard, “don’t worry about tonight.”  
He was standing in the window, majestic and somehow suddenly serious. Dean, freshly showered and re-dressing, felt his heart sink; what if it had all been a terrible mistake? Richard liked Aidan, and he employed Dean, and-  
“Stop worrying,” Richard said, turning a kind smile on him. “It’ll happen again- if you want it to, that is. Just- you’re excused from your shift tonight.” He pressed a kiss to Dean’s lips, then returned to stand by the window, seemingly searching for something.  
Aidan came in from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, and slipped soapy fresh hands around Dean’s waist.  
“Can you stay?” he asked, puppy-eyes in full force.  
“No one’s staying,” said Richard.  
“What?” Aidan was shocked, Dean hurt. Richard wheeled round and gave them both the full force of his steely blue gaze.  
“Don’t look at me like that, none of us are staying here. We’re going over to the club. Right now.”  
“Why?” Dean asked, hesitantly. “It’s only half five.”  
“Better security,” said Richard. “The cameras don’t cover the whole of the street, I can’t be sure we won’t have some slimy little bastard sneaking in-“  
“Wait, is there something you want to tell me?” asked Dean, slightly scared now.  
“Aidan’s had some bother. It’s safer at the club, trust me. I phoned security, we’re well covered there. I’ll get this place made even more watertight as soon as I can, but right now, we’re leaving. Aidan, phone a cab. I need to explain some things to-“ he paused, unsure which name to use for Dean.  
“O’Gorman will do,” said Dean. “We’re not fucking now, so let’s be professional.” The tone made Richard flinch, and he knew they’d have to talk about it properly, later on- as rational men, not as employer and employee. Nothing, it seemed, was ever as simple as a casual fuck.

*** 

It was the evening, the club’s opening time, and Tom had disappeared off into what the boys called their dressing rooms, though really the area was far less glamorous. Ben watched him go with a wistful look in his eyes, but Richard was too preoccupied to tease him. Benedict would usually have noticed that something was wrong with his boss, but he too, being preoccupied, was less than his usual perceptive self. Richard was a little on the short-tempered side, and Benedict a little love-dazed, so things were never going to go brilliantly.  
“Benedict, what the hell is wrong with you? We’ve got people queuing up to the bloody bar, get your head in the game!” Richard practically barked, making the barman jump so violently as to spill the entire contents of a glass, then drop it, smashing it into tiny smithereens on the floor. Benedict let out a startled, confused half-sob and the assistant bartender rushed over to sweep it up. Benedict flapped his hands helplessly at the man, and shoo-ed him away.  
“No, I can do this, you serve the drinks, I can do this- Richard, I-“  
“Just sort it out,” Richard said shortly, and strode away before the barman could get his thoughts together, let alone formulate a reply, so shocked and near tears was he. Benedict faffed about on the floor for a few moments, gathered the shards, binned them, and pretended to be fine for the rest of the evening until Tom went on his break and came over, a big smile plastered across his sweat-soaked face, flushed and shirtless and beamingly happy to see the other man. The smile died on his lips as he saw the tears sparkling at the back of Benedict’s swimming-pool eyes.  
“Hey- hey, Ben, baby, what’s happened?” he demanded, all aghast concern. “Here, come outside with me. Have you got cigarettes on you?”  
“I can’t,” Benedict said bravely, blinking furiously. “Busy.”  
“He usually lets you have a cigarette break, though? Come on, sweetheart,” encouraged Tom, reaching out to brush an escaping teardrop from his beloved’s eye with the soft pad of one fingertip.  
“He’s angry with me,” muttered Benedict, ducking his head so that his curls fell into his eyes and hid him from Tom. Tom’s mouth fell into a perfect, outraged O. His eyes fairly flashed as he stared intently one way then the next, searching Richard out. Sir or no Sir, nobody did anything to Ben and could expect to get away with it.  
“He made you upset like this?” he demanded.  
“It’s nothing- really, I-“ Benedict tried to placate the other man, but Tom was riled now.  
“It is not nothing,” he said, emphatically, “those are tears. I’m going to find him.”

***  
“Is this a good idea, Matt?” asked the vaguely anxious looking man, with the beautiful chocolate brown eyes. He stood by the gang leader in the street around the corner from Armitage’s, just out of reach of the nearest streetlight. They were both clad in suitably indie looking boots, jeans and hoodies under faded leather jackets to look like harmless hipsters, as opposed to deadly thugs. “They’ll have security; they’ll be looking for you.” Because you’re a creepy ass motherfucker, he added silently to himself, though loyalty and a fear of infertility and/or death prevented him from voicing the sentiment aloud. Matt stared at him like he was a particularly slow primary-schooler.  
“We are in disguise,” he said, enunciating clearly in time-honoured “I’m talking to an idiot” fashion.  
“Matt-” said the other, helplessly. Matt flapped a hand impatiently at him.  
“Mathew, do not argue. Aidan Turner is our priority, and Richard Armitage is in the way. Do we really give up so easily?” His tone allowed for no argument. “Come along, Baynton.”

***  
Richard was stressed. It did not often happen; by nature he was fairly relaxed and in control, with a comfortable sense of his own authority. Somehow, though, this had dissipated over the previous few hours and he felt out of his depth and genuinely worried for Aidan’s safety. In all honesty, that was why he had let Dean off his shift- he really wanted someone to be with Aidan at all times, and if it led to further threesomes then that was no problem either. While he would have loved to be the protective older man to Aidan’s vulnerable waif all night, he had a club to run, and found it impossible to stay still anyway. He paced the building like a tormented tigress, eyes flashing, and badgered the bouncers and extra security men he’s hired for the night for updates every few minutes. He had given them all as detailed description of Matt Smith as he and Aidan could remember with their combined impressions of the man, but they lacked any kind of photographic indication of who exactly they were meant to bar, and were getting increasingly irate with Richard’s neuroticism.  
“Bloody bouncers,” Richard was muttering, flexing his fingers agitatedly against his thigh as he perched on a stool and stared intently around him. He wished those fingers were running through Aidan’s soft curls; the longer he was apart from the man, the worse he felt. He trusted Dean to take care of him, and he would really rather Aidan was out the way anyway- anything could happen to him in the crowd of bodies on the dancefloor- but it felt so wrong to be apart.  
The appearance of a solid, heated body at his shoulder made him start, spinning round prepared to lash out, smashing his itching fist into that square, smug jaw. He stopped himself when he saw Tom, and clenched his fist against his leg instead.  
“Hiddleston,” he said, evenly.  
“What have you done to Ben?” Tom got straight to the point. Richard’s jaw tightened.  
“What? Nothing!” he said. “Look, Hiddleston, I appreciate you two are hooking up now, but we’ve got a security risk and-“  
“He’s my boyfriend,” Tom cut in, coolly. Richard arched an eyebrow, and thought, unkindly, that that was all extremely sudden. “And you’ve done something to upset him, and-“  
“Hiddleston. Security risk. Higher priority than your love life,” Richard said, the twitch in his jaw making him look even more dangerous now. Tom’s face darkened, the open prettiness being replaced by grim determination. Benedict, watching from the bar, felt his stomach sink. He had never seen Tom so antagonistic, and, while deeply attractive, it could get them both fired if he started a fight with the boss.  
“Sir, with all due respect, I suspect this has rather more to do with your love life,” Tom replied, holding himself in check with difficulty. “Is this about Aidan?” he asked, bluntly. A flush coloured Richard’s cheeks and betrayed the affirmative immediately. It was Tom’s turn to raise an eyebrow.  
“That’s nothing-“ began Richard, then suddenly he whipped round to stare at the door. Two lanky hipster types were entering, one hesitant and slightly bewildered- a typical first timer at the club, overwhelmed by the nudity and, Richard thought smugly, the calibre of his boys- and the other, slightly ahead, oozing confidence and, quite frankly, smarm. If Richard had had hackles, they would be on end. He didn’t, but he was on his feet in seconds and striding towards the newcomers. Tom watched him go, insulted that he had been upstaged, and offended on Benedict’s behalf, but he held back, and waited for the first punch.

***

Aidan heard the kerfuffle downstairs and sat up. He had been lying curled along Dean’s body, catlike and pliant, watching tv over the muffled sounds of whooping and music from the club, because Richard had wanted him out of the way, and Dean was obliging and cuddly and quite charming, so neither of them minded much.  
“Dean,” whispered Aidan, and shook the blonde’s shoulder. “Something’s going on.”  
“We have to stay here,” Dean reminded him. “Especially if it’s Matt.”  
Aidan’s wide eyes fixed on Dean’s, heavy with worry. Dean smiled reassuringly and stroked a hand through his hair, planting a soft kiss on those just-healing lips.  
“He’s got the place done up to the rafters with bouncers,” he said softly, “Matt can’t get us here, not any of us. He’ll be fine, and so will we. This will get sorted out.”  
Aidan sank back, chewing his lip sadly. He was feeling terribly guilty for dragging all these people into his sorry mess, and wanted to curl up and have it all just go away. He wasn’t good enough for them all, they were too nice, too kind, too tolerant of his fuck-ups…  
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “This was never meant to involve all you people- good people.”  
“Don’t be sorry,” Dean said. “You’re one of us now, this is what friends are for.” He planted another kiss on the Irishman’s lips, and smiled. “And lovers even more so.”

***  
The security team had been waiting for an opportunity to sort Richard out, and when he nearly landed a punch on a customer, they pounced, dragging him back.  
“That’s him, that’s the bloody-“ Richard’s shouts were drowned out by general chaos erupting. The smirk on Matt’s face as he was forcibly ejected from the club promised that the war had barely begun, but Richard was prevented from rushing outside and smashing the smug bastard to a pulp by his own bouncers, which was terribly undignified.  
“Sir, you can’t just go out there and assault customers,” one of the bouncers said in a voice almost as firm as the grip with which he held Richard’s wrists.  
“That is not a customer!” Richard snarled, but by the time they released him, Matt and Mat were nothing but shadowy figures growing ever smaller in the distance. He wrenched free with a curse and stalked up to the flat above the club, slamming the door open and then violently shut behind him, before taking several deep breaths and calming himself with the beauty of the two boys- his two boys, his mind supplied with a sort of awestruck pride- curled around each other on the bed. Unruly dark brown hair overlapped with wavy golden locks, and two sets of soft, long-fingered hands entwined on Aidan’s chest, Dean keeping him locked in a protective embrace that made Richard’s heart swell with even more pride. He knew, in that instant, that having Dean around as more than an employee, more than a toy for Aidan, was going to be very nice indeed.  
“He’s sleeping,” Dean whispered.  
“I can see that,” Richard whispered back. “Did you hear that racket downstairs? Matt turned up. My own security guys wouldn’t let me put an end to him- the cheek of it!”  
“We heard,” nodded Dean. “Aidan got a bit upset. He feels terribly guilty for dragging us into this. He knows you’re tense as fuck about it all.”  
Richard chewed his lip, ran a hand through his dark hair.  
“Are you ok here for a bit longer?” he asked, after a pause. “I should probably get back down there, be seen to be pro-active. It’ll only be a few hours til the club shuts and then I’ll be here again, to look after you both.”  
“We’re not puppies,” Dean said with a laugh.  
Richard smiled a genuine smile.  
“Are you sure about that?” he teased.

***  
“I don’t understand why he’d do that? Why would he say something like that?” Benedict was saying earnestly to Martin, who had meandered his way up to the bar with inebriated casualness and plonked down in front of the barman, leaning forwards on his elbows in a way that implied he wanted A Long Chat and would not be moving for some time, regardless of other customers. Benedict didn’t mind. He liked Martin, and the other guys behind the bar had offered repeatedly to do the work because he was so shaken they feared he’d drop more glasses or have a breakdown. Benedict was currently pouring out his woes and confusion to the man, who nodded occasionally and looked wise, but said very little, partly because he didn’t say a lot as a rule anyway and partly because Benedict was doing his usual trick of burbling on and on with no indication of ever pausing for more than half a breath. “I just- it wasn’t like I was doing anything wrong, I mean he told me I should ask Tom out- and I sort of did, but I’m not very good at it, I mean we are having dinner together but it wasn’t as smooth as it would have been if Richard had been me, or if I’d been Richard- which isn’t really relevant, is it, since we’re not? I mean, I’m me, and he’s him. If you know what I mean. But anyway, I don’t know what’s the matter with him but he has never been so snappy with me before, anyone would think he’d be pleased for us, the amount of time he spent badgering me about it, and he introduced us in the first place and I just don’t know what I’ve done wrong, Martin.”  
This carried on for more or less the remaining hour and a half of the club’s opening time, and Martin made encouraging noises and swore a bit, which reassured Benedict that he still had a captive audience. When people started leaving, and being ushered out, Martin extended a hand to Benedict, who thought he was supposed to shake it, and tugged him round the side of the bar and out towards the street.  
“You’re in a state,” Martin said. “Come and get a takeaway with me. Bring that boyfriend of yours, I haven’t spoken to him in a while. Let’s get you away from Richard, away from this place, and clear that pretty head of yours.” This was the most he’d said all night; simply by virtue of being more than noise and swearing, it sounded like an absolutely inspired idea to Benedict.  
“I’ll just go and get Tom,” he said, and hurried off out the back to find the man in question. Knocking on the door, and calling to Tom that they were going, he took the merrily hollered “come iiiii-iiiinnnn” to mean the occupants were decently dressed, but upon pushing the door open he was greeting with the sight of at least three separate bare penises and a very amused smile on Tom’s face somewhere at the back of the room. “Oh I- I say,” stuttered Benedict, and backed out hastily. Tom dressed quickly and followed him out.  
“It really bothers you, doesn’t it?” he said, curiously.  
“No,” said Benedict. He was a useless liar.  
“You’re a useless liar,” Tom laughed, and kissed him. “I find it very endearing. So, what’s the big rush, where are we off to at this time of night? I thought we weren’t going out until tomorrow.”  
“We’re getting a takeaway with Martin,” said Benedict.  
“Oh, I saw you pouring your heart out to him,” laughed Tom. “Seriously though, Ben- are you alright? You were crying.”  
“I still don’t know what I did wrong,” said Benedict in a small voice.  
“Probably nothing,” Tom said. “He seems to be in a total state. Something’s going on- to do with Aidan, not you.” He stroked a hand tenderly through Benedict’s wavy hair. “It’s not you,” he said, gently, insistently. “Come on, handsome. Let’s get that takeaway. Better not keep Martin waiting, you know how much of a rage he gets into!”

***  
The shadows danced around the taxi lights and streetlamps, and the two figures danced in and out of those shadows.  
Matt was gleeful, on a high from having so easily provoked his rival- because that is what he saw Richard as, really. A rival for Aidan, who could make such a marvellous addition to his little crew, and was, quite frankly, wasted on someone who had enough money of his own and only wanted him to fuss over. It was ridiculous, Matt thought, that Richard hadn’t already grown tired of the Irishman; why wasn’t a one night thing good enough for him, why couldn’t he just let Aidan go back to his rightful employer? He felt sure Richard would soon tire- but would it be soon enough? He wanted Aidan back now!  
Mat was worried, shaken by the delight Matt had shown at an almost-fight. He spent a lot of his time being worried. This was because Matt was one of life’s insane cases, with a severe invincibility complex and a determination to have, as the internet said, “ALL the things”, which unfortunately included human beings. He was a people trafficker, a sometime drug trafficker too, and an overgrown five year old. It made him dangerous, but Mat, who had known him since childhood, since before he had flipped and gone mad, clung to the belief that somewhere there was some good in Matt, if only he could stick with him long enough to drag it to the fore.

***  
“It’s not that I don’t like Aidan,” said Tom, who liked almost everyone, “I just think we need to know what’s going on.” He was distracted when he caught sight of himself in a window, and, delicately appalled to see the ketchup on the side of his mouth, he dabbed it away with a napkin.  
“Richard’s normally so upfront and reliable,” agreed Benedict, wiping his own mouth just to be on the safe side. Martin rolled his eyes. Martin didn’t give a toss about ketchup on his face or anyone else’s for that matter. “He’s always looked after us. It’s just so- well, so un-Richard-like.”

***  
“We should go back,” Mat suggested, taking Matt’s arm. Matt shook him off.  
“Shush. Listen!” he hissed, pressing himself to the wall and craning close to the corner. “Did you hear that?”  
“Hear what?” murmured Mat, following suit.  
Matt seemed not to hear him, but a manic grin spread across his face.  
“Come along, Baynton,” he said, gleefully. “We’re going abducting.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin is an extremely badass motherfucker and don't we know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own any of the characters. I hope it's seen as just the bit of fun I intended it as!

One thing you should never do is pick a fight with Martin Freeman.  
This would seem obvious to anyone who knew the man, or had even seen his peculiarly violent dancing at Armitage’s, but unfortunately for Matt and Mat, they did not know the man or the warning. They also did not know that he was standing round the corner, devouring a burger with immense relish. Matt had heard the conversation about Richard and Aidan and decided to kidnap them. He hadn’t indulged in torture for a little while- Mat was very boring when it came to finger removal and waterboarding- but it could be just what they needed to get that Armitage man to hand Aidan over.  
So, when Matt sprang out from behind the wall, teeth bared and arms outstretched in a kind of crazed attempt at a rugby tackle, he had expected to knock one of the men flying and leave Mat to sort out the second. He had not expected the short but solid form of Martin to be there.  
“What the FUCKING SHITTING WANKBALLS are you DOING?” bellowed Martin, as his burger hit the ground a split second before Tom did, the result of Matt lunging for him. Martin lunged back, and managed to send Mat staggering. Benedict let out a yelp, and Matt turned his attentions from Tom onto him, laying into the terrified barman with almost animalistic violence.   
Tom saw red; Matt barely had time to register the fist before his nose exploded against it.  
“Get back!” someone yelled.  
“Fucking shit!” shouted someone else.  
There followed a chaotic scuffle during which Martin swore more creatively than Matt and Mat had ever heard anyone swear before, and Benedict was accidentally heroic, wrenching free in blind panic from Matt, and walloping Mat in the nose with a wildly flailing arm so that he fell back, letting go of Tom. He staggered backwards into the wall. Matt screamed abuse at the world in general and Martin in particular, and at last Mat managed to drag him away, blood pouring from his face.  
“And fucking STAY AWAY, hipster twats!” hollered Martin, nursing his grazed fist. “Ben, are you ok? You’re shaking.” He grabbed the trembling man with his least-injured hand and shook him roughly out of his imminent hysterics, then shoved him into Tom’s more than welcoming arms and fumbled in his pocket for his phone. “Richard? Rich? Yes, ‘s Martin. We’ve been attacked. Fucking muggers. Looked like the guys you got your knickers in a twist about earlier. Open the fucking club, we’re coming back.” Pause. “Oh, Rich, don’t be a wanker. Get the hell out of that Irish boy and put your fucking pants on, and let us in. We’re a few minutes away.” He ended the call, and turned to regard the breathless, battered boys now clinging to each other in the flickering light of a faulty street lamp. Tom had Ben in his arms, dark head tucked under his chin, with the barman practically inhaling Tom’s chest with closed eyes and shaky breaths. Tom was murmuring words of encouragement, as if to a traumatised kitten, and Martin, usually the most heartlessly unsentimental of men, felt a twinge of emotion for them both. “Come on,” he said gruffly. “This way. Walk ahead of me, no one’s gonna get you. Quickly. That’s it.”  
***

Richard opened the door in nothing more than his pants, and a bad mood. Benedict was already so shaken that he barely had any anxiety left to feel about being confronted with his sex-tousled, sweat-slicked employer and his monumentally well-defined pecs. He collapsed down onto the nearest sofa- the one he had slept on after Aidan arrived, incidentally- and just lay there, crumpled, as Tom stroked his hair with one hand and phoned for a taxi with the other.  
Aidan stood in the doorway, looking distraught, and Dean managed to lead him back upstairs before Martin spotted him; Martin probably wouldn’t have many nice things to say to or about Aidan, he reckoned, and it would only make the situation worse.  
“I’ll call the police tomorrow,” said Tom. “There’s nothing anyone can do now. I’m taking Benedict back to my place. Goodnight.” The coldness in his voice was unmistakable. Richard winced. They still had a lot to sort out, and his head was beginning to throb.  
“Night,” he muttered, and watched them go.

***   
Morning dawned, and with it the realisation that the bed in which Benedict lay was not his own. His blood ran cold and he clutched the sheets around himself in a panic, although he needn’t have worried. He was still wearing the clothes from last night, all intact and smelling reassuringly foul, and there was nobody lying next to him. Sitting up and looking round with eyes still hazy from sleep, he saw Tom swim into focus in an armchair across the room. He was dozing, a book lying open and neglected on his knees. As Benedict rustled the sheets with his movements, Tom’s eyes opened and he smiled beatifically.  
“You’re awake!” he beamed, stretching and rising. “Would you like tea? It works a treat for almost everything.”  
Benedict twitched, gripping the duvet so tightly his knuckles went white. Tom’s face fell, and he stepped carefully closer to the bed.  
“Baby, are you alright?” he asked.  
“’M fine, I just- I’m not used- it’s not my house,” Benedict said, feeling stupid, and almost certain Tom would realise he was weird and leave him. “D-Did we-?”  
“What? Oh- goodness, no! I just put you to bed, I slept on the sofa-” Tom sounded mortified that Benedict even had to ask, and the sight of his horror made Benedict cringe in on himself, close to tears. “Gosh,” Tom said, shifting closer, reaching a gentle hand for Benedict’s shoulder. “You really don’t like this, do you?” he said, curiously. “What happened to you, Ben?”  
“Bad experiences,” Benedict whispered. “Talk about clichéd.”  
“It’s not,” Tom said. “And if you don’t want to talk about it just now, that’s perfectly fine.” He stroked a hand across one prominent cheekbone. “Can I- can I just hold you for a while?” he asked softly.  
Benedict let out a long breath he hadn’t been aware of holding in, and nodded minutely.  
“Yes,” he said. “And then that tea sounds marvellous.”

*** 

 

“It was that bloody little man!” raged Matt, staring with a death glare at his reflection in the hideously ornate, flashy gold mirror. He had spent almost the entire remainder of the night sat in front of the thing, staring at himself without really registering his own existence, and occasionally he would twitch, or utter a sentence much like the one he had just greeted Mat with. Mat, who placed a cup of steaming hot coffee on the table on which the grotesque mirror was mounted, and tried to bring the other man out of his reverie with a gentle shoulder shake. Mat, who hadn’t slept for much of the night either, because Matt’s rivals were stepping up their attempts at taking over Matt’s turf, and, while Mat didn’t approve of people trafficking and crime, it was in Matt’s best interests- in both their interests, heaven help him, he thought- to keep the top-dog status for as long as they could. Mat, who didn’t know what he was doing, just knew he had to do it for Matt’s sake.  
“I brought coffee,” he said.  
“I will end them,” said Matt, suddenly, and twisted round in his seat to stare up at the brown eyed man.  
“Maybe drink the coffee first?” suggested Mat, relieved that at least Matt was back in the same world as everyone else.  
“I will,” he said, picking up the cup and gazing critically at its contents. “You think I won’t. I will end them all. I’m not drinking this shit, Mathew. Did you make it yourself?”  
“Yes.”  
“Are you absolutely sure?”  
“Yes.”  
“Chuck it. I’ll watch you make it again. I don’t trust people.”  
“So I’d gathered.”  
“And if those snivelling bastards go bleating to the police, I was at home all night. We both were. Hosting a party. Grab a few of the lads, twist some arms and get them to back up the alibi. If they kick up a fuss, bring them my way; I haven’t had a good murder in weeks.” He smiled dreamily at the kitchen cupboard, then turned his attention on the other man.  
“Right,” said Mat, unhappily, and reached for the jar of coffee beans, horribly aware of those slightly glazed eyes on his every small move.

***   
As Tom sat on the sofa in his living room, with Benedict’s dark, tousled head in his lap, he mused idly on whether or not it would be overly dramatic to say this was as close to perfection as it was possible for people like him and Ben to be; lost people, life’s iffy characters, the ones society never quite likes to get too close to. He didn’t show it often, patching the cracks up with a delightful smile and crinkled blue eyes that brought out the sun with a sense of obligation, but Tom had his doubts too. He liked people, and loved life, but friends were hard to come by outside the particularly permissive close circles he moved in. People liked him, but the way he earned his living brought down barriers he hadn’t yet figured out how to lift again. He carded his fingers through Benedict’s hair- my boyfriend, he thought, and a smile leapt unbidden to his lips, showing perfect pearly whites that reflected the morning sun just as Benedict opened his eyes and looked up. The barman could not help but smile back. It was natural- and felt contented.  
The ringing of his phone mad Tom wrinkle his pretty face, and Benedict tensed his whole body, preparing for something to shatter the peace he had allowed himself to slip into, moulded against Tom’s long, warm legs.  
“Terribly sorry,” said Tom. “I’ll just get that.” He reached over, picked up the offending item of technology, and held it to his ear. “Hello? It’s my day off.”

*** 

“I know,” said Richard. He leant forwards, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. His head was pounding and Aidan was very concerned that he’d already taken more than the recommended dose of pills. “Are you and Benedict alright? I tried ringing his phone, it took me to voicemail about twenty times.”  
“We haven’t heard it ring,” said Tom, perplexed. “He might have dropped it, I suppose. Yes, though, in answer to your question, we are both very well, thank you.”  
“I owe you an apology,” sighed Richard. “I’ve been a bit of a tit about this. It’s unfair. Aidan got mixed up with some unpleasant people and I’m not abandoning him to their mercy, but that’s no reason to snap at you, or Benedict- and I’m very happy for you both. Really, I am. Please, accept my apology?”  
It was unexpected, but Tom was a gentleman, and easily placated by sincerity.  
“Of course,” he said warmly. “Consider it forgotten. How are you? And Aidan? And Dean?” he added, feeling slightly guilty for starting that whole ménage a trois situation, which had been intended as casual fun and seemed to have evolved into an actual living arrangement.  
“Huh? Oh. Yeah, fine. We’re still at the club. I’m getting security at my house upped a notch or seven, but it’s still safer here. Is Benedict not coming in either, tonight?”  
“I’ll- uh- pass you over,” said Tom, and handed the brunette the phone. After a brief and civilised conversation- with no tears from Benedict- it was established that Noel Fielding, the boy who had been bartending the night before, and tried to help Benedict clear up the smashed glass, was perfectly fine to cover for him. Richard was rather relieved. Being around a jittery Benedict would not make either of their lives easier right now.  
“That’s great,” he said. “Have a good evening, boys.”

*** 

The police arrived at Matt’s house in the afternoon, having been alerted by Tom, and harangued by Martin, as to the previous night’s incident. They had heard whispers of gang warfare and the name Smith was frequently thrown about, but it wasn’t an easy name to pin down, its common nature making it the ultimate exercise in hiding in plain sight. They had no evidence, and Matt knew it full well.  
Since the morning’s debacle with the mirror and the suspicious beverage, he had consumed several cups of coffee- all of which he had watched, hawklike, as Mat prepared- and had also eaten a full English breakfast and then half a box of cereal straight from the packet. He was buzzing; charming, smooth, articulate… and bullshitting to the max.  
As soon as they left, and he was sure they had driven away, he jumped onto the nearest sofa and bounced on it, boots denting the cushions, fists raised in an attempt to punch the ceiling. He succeeded; knocked the lampshade from the light fitting, and fell onto the floor. Then, he began to screech manically.  
“Idiots, idiots!” he chanted, veering from gleeful to enraged and back again. Mat took a discreet step backwards and surreptitiously tucked a particularly expensive vase into the nearest drawer. “We’ll get them! All of them. Make me some tea, I’ve had enough blasted coffee today. TEA, Baynton. And then…we plan.”

***   
Italian food always made Benedict feel sophisticated. He didn’t have it often, not having an excuse to eat at nice restaurants, and not being bothered about it enough to make himself Italian meals at home.  
Being with Tom made Benedict feel worth something. He rarely experienced this, either, putting himself second to everyone else because everyone else seemed to be Doing Things, while he just drifted along and made them all cocktails, like a robot.  
The combination of these two things, so infrequently experienced as to be treats on a par with a child’s first appreciation of presents on its birthday, meant that on this evening, seated at a discreet corner table in the restaurant, basking in the glow of Tom’s smile and the candlelight that cocooned them, the prettiest, happiest smile simply refused to leave his face. He was on his second glass of wine, but because of nerves he’d already been drinking before he left his house to meet Tom at the restaurant. He was, consequently, rather tipsy; happily so, but tipsy nevertheless.  
“Your eyes are all sparkly,” he declared, suddenly, with uncharacteristic boldness. “And that risotto was to die for.”  
“You make me sparkly,” giggled Tom, boyishly, and gently bumped his foot against Benedict’s, with a coy nibble at his plush lower lip. Benedict’s eyes widened and he leaned in, clinking his almost-empty wine glass with Tom’s. “Are you ready for dessert?”  
“Are we playing footsie?” asked Benedict, with the tiniest of slurs.  
“If you want us to,” said Tom, with a slight inclination of his head, almost birdlike. “Otherwise, it was just an accidental brush of my foot, which needn’t be repeated.”  
“No, I think I like footsie,” said Benedict, lowering his lashes coquettishly. He ran his own foot slowly up Tom’s ankle, over the shin and up into his lap. Tom’s eyes darkened, the colour disappearing slightly behind black lust. “So. Dessert. I’m not really in the mood for much, a coffee will do me.”  
“That’s not the only thing that will do you,” murmured Tom, but Benedict was reassured by the playful affection in his eyes as he met them. “I’m good with coffee too. And then… would you let me take you home?”  
“Home?” asked Benedict. “I say… Is that- my home? Or yours? I’m not very good at the etiquette of this,” he confessed.  
“I was going to be a gentleman and drop you off at yours with a chaste little goodnight kiss on the cheek, but it really is entirely up to you,” said Tom. “I suppose it depends on just how good at footsie you think I am.” Smiling angelically, he raised his glass to his lips. “Cheers, beautiful,” he said.

***   
The taxi drew up outside Benedict’s door, and the light outside his front porch flicked on welcomingly. The figure in the shadows cringed back into the hedge like a wild animal, and observed in silence as Tom alighted from the cab, extended an elegant hand to assist his date climb out, and closed the door behind them both. Benedict reached for his wallet and paid the driver, tipping him handsomely, and fumbled in his slightly crumpled suit trousers for his door key. The dinner date had gone better than Benedict could have hoped, and Tom expected; the pre-coffee footsie had led to coffee flavoured kisses and hand-holding in the candlelight, to bold, drunken declarations of compliments and cosy kisses in the back of the taxi. It had led them here, to standing in the doorway of Benedict’s cold hallway, hesitating about whether or not to quit while they were ahead or to see where the night ended up.  
“You- you are very welcome to come in. if you’d like,” said Benedict. “Let me just put the heating on. I forgot to before I left.”  
“Just how heated do you want it to get?” enquired Tom , as he closed the front door and peppered the other man with kisses scented with after-coffee mint breath and warm affection, along his neck, across the strong jaw, across the fine cheekbones. Benedict shivered, reaching to run slender hands across Tom’s shoulders, letting his fingertips brush sensually- albeit accidental sensuality; he really wouldn’t have appreciated being called sensual because he perceived himself, even in romantic situations like this, to be a gawky horse man- over the soft charcoal grey fabric of Tom’s suit.   
Tom had appeared like a breathtaking vision of angelic glory in that suit; it set off his fair hair and his twinkling eyes to perfection, and Benedict had looked down at his jumper and suit trousers and felt a moment of worry. He needn’t have. Tom thought he was breathtaking too. The jumper was beautiful, had made him instantly think “boyfriend material”, but it seemed so awfully cheesy that he didn’t say it aloud.  
“I- don’t actually know,” Benedict admitted, looking up from the suit’s appealing texture and meeting Tom’s eyes. “But- I’d rather like it if you’d join me on the sofa. And let me kiss you some more. And- you’re welcome to- to stay the night,” he added, all in a rush.  
Tom’s smile was like the sun rising.  
“I would be honoured,” he said, and sealed his lips over Benedict’s with an air of finality.  
Outside, the light flickered off, and the figure in the hedge raised his phone to his ear, tucked underneath his dark hoodie.  
“Got them. Both of them,” he muttered.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benedict is insecure, and we find out why. Aidan, meanwhile, is a mischievous little tyke, because we need something to lighten the mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains flashbacks which may be triggering (sexually abusive partners)

The sofa was soft against Benedict’s back; softer than he remembered. When he opened his eyes, however, he realised he was lying more on Tom than the sofa itself.  
“I say!” he said, surprised. “It’s morning!”  
Tom didn’t reply. Benedict tensed, ran a tentative finger along his neck, was relieved to feel a pulse still beating out beneath the flawless skin. The watery morning sunlight did little to let Benedict see his boyfriend’s face, but he pushed his own face close and squinted at the other man, and deduced that he was still sleeping, and looking angelic while doing so. Benedict smiled, and relaxed back against the sofa cushions, sitting slightly upright so he wouldn’t disturb Tom with the pressure on his chest. He debated whether or not to get up and make tea; Tom had made him tea when he stayed at Tom’s, what if he was inadequate as Tom’s boyfriend if he failed to reciprocate the tea-offering…what if he didn’t even have any tea, because he was scatty and had meant to do a grocery shop but then his whole life had been turned upside down and, well, that rather tends to throw a man’s plans for restocking his cupboards somewhat… Well, he supposed he couldn’t get up anyway, not without waking the sleeping angel currently sprawled along and around him. Tom shifted in his sleep, tucked his leg over Benedict’s, and gave a tiny snuffle, as if in agreement.  
“I’ll just sit here,” decided Benedict, “and wait for you to wake up.”

***   
“Oh, don’t be silly!” said the voice, teasingly. “You’re sixteen, it’s what sixteen year olds do. It isn’t even illegal.”  
The skinny auburn haired boy cringed in on himself, away from the insistent lips, shaking his head. He was drunk. He didn’t actually know what being drunk felt like but they’d given him a paper cup of something that looked fairly inoffensive, and it tasted the way his mother’s nail polish remover smelt, and now he was dizzy and everyone else seemed to be dizzy but enjoying it more, and they kept saying they were drunk, and how cool it was, so he supposed he must be too.  
“No,” he said, but it came out barely human, more like the desperate croak of an animal.  
“It’s no wonder he’s so smart,” said someone, with mockery dripping from their voice. “He never does anything outside of school. Nothing fun, no parties- look at him. Why did you even bring him, Andrew?”  
Andrew laughed. It didn’t usually sound threatening- it had been one of the things that made him so attractive at first, that and his beautiful Irish lilt that made poetry and philosophy of his every mediocre word- but it was shiver-inducing right at this moment.  
“He’ll be fine. He’s ok with it really,” Andrew said, and a little giggle bubbled up. “And we’re going out, of course I was going to bring him.”   
He slid an arm around the ginger boy’s waist and hauled him to his feet, the height difference between dark haired Andrew and the lanky ginger lad giving a comical effect to what would not have been funny to any sober person. Andrew manhandled him out of the garden where the other teenagers sat or stood (or, in the case of some particularly determined to destroy their livers and lives in equal measure, sprawled, insensible, in the flowerbeds) and somehow bundled him clumsily yet forcefully through the front door. More bodies decorated the staircase, and the higher up the stairs you progressed, the more intimate and undressed these bodies seemed to become. What started as giggly kissing with a hint of tentative teenage tongues on the third step escalated to hands under shirts by the seventh, and when you turned the spiral at the tenth step, you were greeted with scenes of naked abandon, and writhing. The boy’s stumbling feet caught on one ecstatically kicking ankle and he fell forwards with a strangled noise.  
“No, don’t you go passing out on me,” said Andrew. Andrew could hold his liquor worryingly well for a boy of such slight frame. It might have been an Irish thing. “I’ve dragged you away from them, that was a nice thing to do, I got you away from them because they’re idiots and they don’t appreciate you. I appreciate you. You appreciate me. Right? So don’t you go passing out on me, you ginger beanpole. I need you awake for this.”  
“I don’t wanna…be here…”  
“Well, you are. I invited you round, what did you think we’d be doing? Playing fucking Monopoly? I’ve been nice to you, I’ve been the good boyfriend all evening- that’s it, sit down on that bed. ‘S fine, no one will come in here. They’re all stupid anyway. Just you and me now.”   
Andrew closed the door of the small bedroom, and joined the other boy on the narrow cabin bed. The room was nicely decorated, had those colourful themed stickers children have in their bedrooms. There were balloons and a butterfly, and the lampshade depicted a peaceful farmyard scene. It was all so surreal. So surreal, in fact, that the soft insistent pressure of hands tugging at the one reasonably fashionable shirt the thin boy owned hardly seemed real either. It didn’t seem real, not really real, until Andrew’s wandering hands became impatient and his short nails scratched on the sensitive pale skin of the ginger boy’s chest and left raised red welts in their wake. The boy gasped, tensed up, and was about to protest when a tongue that tasted of the horrible stuff in the paper cup suddenly reared up in his mouth like a particularly repulsive wild horse and sloppy lips mashed into his own with nothing akin to affection.  
“This is what people do? This?” thought the skinny boy, repulsed and panic-stricken in equal measure. He’d heard his parents doing the deed a few unfortunate times thanks to ill-timed trips to get a glass of water, necessitating his passing their bedroom on his way across the landing. He had seen various kisses in films and been reliably informed that the “better stuff” wasn’t allowed to be shown, but still happened. He had even seen other people from school kissing and then leaving together to go off somewhere secret- if this was what it was like, then it seemed a great wonder anyone ever bothered, let alone continue to perpetuate the myth that it was fun.  
He was nearly choking, and there was a hand down his trousers. To his distress, he found he was already half hard, and as Andrew rubbed him with a distressing lack of finesse, he felt himself thicken and lengthen in the sloppy grip, confused and aroused despite everything. Well- if he was turned on, then obviously everything was going as it should do. Right? He was hard, he wanted it, Andrew was cute, Andrew was nice, Andrew had taken him away from those other people with their sneers and jeers and Andrew was his boyfriend- and this is what boyfriends do.  
“I don’t,” he sputtered, managing to expel the tongue from his airway. He began to thrash about. It was humiliating, but he could not stop. “I can’t- stop, I can’t-“  
“Benedict?” said Tom.  
Benedict’s eyes flew open. He was caked in sweat and twitching like a puppet on an invisible string.  
“I’m here, I’ve got you,” said Tom, somehow managing to hold him despite being stll more or less underneath the barman. “It’s just you and me now.”  
Benedict burst into tears.

*** 

Martin was good at haranguing people, and if this didn’t work to get him what he wanted, he was equally good at displaying explosive outrage. When he heard that the police had “investigated the claims relating to Mr Smith, and found he had an alibi corroborated by at least six other individuals at the time in question”, his immediate reaction was to roar “BULLSHIT!” down the phone at the unfortunate desk sergeant.   
His secondary reaction was rather more proactive. He got on the first bus going in the vaguely right direction, and ran the rest of the way, his fortysomething feet complaining by the time they stopped outside Armitage’s.  
“Richard! Open up, ‘s me!” he bellowed.  
Aidan flung open an upstairs window and stuck out a head of hair so wild Martin suspected some kinky electro-sex had gone wrong and electrocuted the poor lad; he put nothing past Richard.  
“Hello, Martin!” Aidan greeted him with a smile so wide that no one would have guessed he feared for his life. “Richard, it’s Martin,” he called, glancing behind him.  
“I fucking heard him the first time,” grumbled Richard, as his unshaven, bleary face joined Aidan’s at the window. “Dean’s just gone down to open the door. Come on up, you noisy wanker.”  
Martin flashed Dean a charming smile as the New Zealander opened the door, and followed him up the stairs to the little flat. For a moment, Dean’s heart soared, hoping this could only mean good news and a change in their collective fortunes.  
No such luck.  
“The police said he’s got an alibi. He’s going to get off scot free, they didn’t even question the little shit,” Martin said bluntly. Dean’s heart sank again, and he shot a worried glance at the two dark haired men. Aidan sat down, ran a hand through his hair, making it even wilder. Richard smashed his fist into the wall; they all jumped.  
“I’m sorry,” Dean said, quietly, uselessly, and retreated from the room.  
“Thanks, Martin,” said Richard, joining Aidan on the sofa, managing a terse smile at the shorter man before turning his attention to the sore hand he’d just smacked into the wall. “Does Hiddleston know?”  
“Haven’t a clue. I haven’t seen him, came straight over when I found out.”  
“Yeah. Huh. Thanks,” he said again, and then there wasn’t much else Martin could say that would have made any difference, so he made his excuses and left.  
“That looks sore,” remarked Aidan, crouching on the floor beside Richard, his puppy eyes wide and disarming.  
“It is,” said Richard.  
“Let me,” said Aidan, craning his head over the sore hand, and started honest-to-hell licking it. He lapped over battered, hot skin, raised eyes filled with far too much innocence, and then took Richard’s thumb into his mouth. He made love to it with his tongue and a hint of teeth, and moved on to his forefinger. At this point, Richard let out a small moan. Aidan pulled off from the finger with a filthy pop, nuzzled at Richard’s crotch through soft denim, and giggled. “Enjoying that?” he purred.  
“Definitely am,” rumbled Richard, closing his eyes. “Fuck, Aid. You’re such a distracting little slut when you put your mind to it.”  
Aidan returned to the finger fellating, and Richard’s head fell back against the sofa, exposing a stubbly jawline and a biteable neck that Dean, re-entering now that he felt he was safe from being punched, decided to attack.  
“Ohhh…” a vaguely human noise escaped Richard’s parted lips, and he instinctively moved into Dean’s kisses. Aidan pulled off again, and the noise turned to disappointment. “Aidan-“  
“Finger lickin’ good,” quipped the Irishman, looking immensely pleased with himself, and got back to it, working Richard’s fly open with nimble fingers as Dean worked his way down to the skin peeking through Richard’s temptingly open-necked shirt. Richard fairly mewled in happiness, and murmured something, so blissed out it was barely audible.  
“What was that?” whispered Dean, right against Richard’s collarbone, the vibrations of his voice going straight to the older man’s cock.  
“I said…” Richard’s voice cracked with pleasure, “I said ‘fuck the police’. This is perfect.”  
Aidan’s head popped up for the third time, but by this point his hand was down Richard’s pants so he didn’t complain at the loss of contact.  
“Would you like to?” he asked, mischievously.  
“Like to what?” asked Dean and Richard simultaneously.  
“Fuck the police. A policeman. Me. In uniform. Dean too, if you ask nicely,” grinned the Irishman.  
“Don’t say things like that, my balls are about to explode as it is,” groaned Richard.  
“That’s a yes, then,” said Dean, and winked at Aidan. Aidan fell a little bit more in love with him, then fell to sucking Richard off with all the enthusiasm of a man who has recently stumbled quite merrily into a threesome.

*** 

“It’s ok, it’s fine, I won’t make you talk about it,” said Tom, stroking Benedict’s sweat dampened curls.  
“I- think maybe I need to,” he said. “If we’re going to work. As a couple, I mean. If- if that’s what you want us to be. If you want there to be an us.” He looked so hesitant that tears sprang to Tom’s eyes, and he tightened his grip.  
“Of course I do,” he said. “I think there already is. And I’ll be here, for as long as you need me.”  
“I just- the nightmares,” said Benedict, with a sob. “They keep happening, Andrew keeps coming back. Every time I get remotely close to someone- and it doesn’t happen often, I think I must be the wrong sort of person,” he said, forlornly, “for other people.” He sighed deeply. “But every time I do- I think I’ve got over it and then- and thenAndrewcomesbackinmydreamsandIcan’ttakeitanymore.” It all burbled out in a rush of hopelessness; and yet, the very fact that he’d told Tom suggested that there was scope for improvement. He’d never told anyone before, no matter how many dates they’d managed to go on- although, the pitiful total only amounted to four, none of which he’d arranged or even chosen.  
No, Tom was, though Benedict with a hiccup, somehow different. Special.  
“Don’t make me go and see anyone professional,” he said in a whisper, raising sad eyes to meet Tom’s gaze. “Andrew’s parents were psychiatrists. I- I just can’t.”  
“I wouldn’t dream of making you do anything you don’t want to,” Tom promised, and sealed it with a kiss. “And neither should anyone else.”

***   
Leaving Richard in a state of blissed-out bonelessness, Aidan wiped off his mouth with exaggerated delicacy, and tiptoed to the kitchen, where Dean was buttoning up his shirt and downing a second much-needed glass of water.  
“Aidan!” Richard’s voice came suddenly from the settee. “I hope you’re not thinking of going out anywhere. I’m not daft, you know.”  
“Course not,” sang Aidan, far too merrily for someone who had just climaxed three times. “Just getting a drink.”  
“Right,” said Richard, already slipping off into dreamland.  
“I think we definitely should,” Aidan mouthed against Dean’s ear, and pecked him on the cheek. He batted Aidan away, but Aidan was persistent. “You know what a kinky bugger he is, you saw how turned on he got, ordering us about. He loved my little suggestion. Come on, Deano. Be a babe and come with me- if we’re together, we’ll at least be a match for Matt and his little sidekick. And it will be worth it, because we’ll have mindblowing sex afterwards.” Aidan could be extremely persuasive. Fortunately, years as a stripper meant Dean was exceptionally good at refusing people, especially oversexed people, who suggested things he knew weren’t sensible. He shook his head.  
“Order the damn thing online,” he laughed.  
“Oh, Deeeean,” whined Aidan.  
“Don’t Dean me,”tutted Dean, and shut him up by pinning him against the worktop, circling his hips obscenely into the other man’s crotch. “It’s a fantastic idea, Aid- but really, is it worth getting abducted over?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom pole dances (well, he suggested it, not me: http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m3z99mxRGE1rv9mmxo4_250.gif ) and Noel is a cheeky little enabler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, the disclaimer that I don't own anyone still stands.

“They’re all hiding, like little limpets in a sea cave!” screeched Matt, bursting through the door, brandishing a smoking gun in one hand and two teacups in the other. “We’ll never get the bastards at this rate!” Mat ducked instinctively beneath the coffee table, but the scrawny wide eyed boy by the window took a wildly flung teacup to the face.  
“Duck, Colin!” hissed Mat, dragging him under the table with him. “Oh, damn. Wait til he’s gone, and I’ll clean that up for you.”  
“Please don’t kill me,” quavered Colin in his usually melodious Irish accent wobbling furiously.  
“Shhh,” Mat said.  
“BAYNTON GET UP HERE!” screamed Matt, lobbing the second teacup at the table. “I can see your socks. They look vile. Change them.”  
Mat crept out, and brushed imaginary dust from his lapels with a forced air of calm coolness. Matt flashed a sharky smile at the gesture.  
“Good, Baynton,” he said, approving for no real reason. “So who’s your little table buddy?”  
“Colin,” said Mat, with as much casualness as he could.  
“Oh, the Morgan kid. I told him to fuck off,” said Matt.  
“He was just leaving,” Mat said.  
“He better get quicker at it,” smiled Matt at the ceiling. “Or I’ll slit his fucking throat. Ok?” he said, sweetly, and tapped his foot impatiently, nodding at the doorway. Colin stared from Mat to Matt, with terror in his eyes, then slipped out, still bleeding from where the cup had shattered and cut him. Mat inwardly sighed. This was getting too much. “You’re going soft, Mathew,” said Matt solemnly. “He’s rent boy scum, and he makes me money. He’s not a person. He did one little spy job for me- one teeny tiny job or I would’ve bumped off his scummy little boyfriend,” he chuckled, “but that doesn’t mean you have any right to be nice to the little sod.”  
“Who was he spying on?” asked Mat.  
“The stripper and his bitch,” smirked Matt. “I rather fancy taking the one just to spite the other. It would be a pleasure, actually; Armitage and Turner getting involved would be a bonus.” He picked up a plate from the sideboard, spun it, frisbee-like, across the room, and shot it in mid-air, sending it shattering to the floor. Mat flinched. Matt giggled, and skipped out of the room. He had hookers to harangue. 

*** 

Having your boyfriend under threat from a homicidal gangly giraffe-man in braces was, Richard thought ruefully, terribly distracting from trying to run a business; and the business was distracting enough as it was, being almost entirely around nude men. Richard prided himself on being one hell of a slick businessman, though, and the fact that he’d forgotten that the pole was being installed this afternoon was rather an embarrassment.  
“What in the name of all things-” began Dean, peering round Richard’s shoulder as the workmen marched in and began drilling at the floor.  
“It’s a pole,” said Richard, trying to hide his confusion. After all, he’d ordered the sodding thing, might as well look like he knew what he was doing. Dean, however, was not in the slightest bit fooled by this. “For you.”  
“Oh, you old romantic, you shouldn’t have,” teased the blonde, running his fingers through Richard’s soft dark hair.  
“Dean! Not in front of the workmen! Be professional,” hissed Richard in mortification. “It’s for the club. At this moment in time, you’re my employee.”  
Dean pulled a face, and wandered upstairs with a deliberate wiggle in his step. As he ascended the top step, he tossed his head for effect, and hoped Richard had seen. He went into the kitchenette, not noticing the other occupant of the small bedroom.  
“What’s the fuss?” yawned Aidan from behind the laptop balanced on his chest.  
“Pole,” said Dean indistinctly, head in the fridge, mouth wrapped around a finger of Kit Kat.  
“Pardon?” asked Aidan, closing the lid of the laptop to peer almost accusingly at the blonde, now out of the fridge and leaning around the doorway.  
“POLE,” repeated Dean. “He wanted the boys- the strippers, that is. Me included- to have a pole. To incorporate. Into the show, like. I think it’ll mostly be on special request, for extra tips and shit. It should be good.”  
“Too damn right it should!” exclaimed Aidan, pushing the laptop aside. “Come here, you kinky motherfucker, just get on me. Why did nobody tell me there would be poles?”  
“Richard forgot,” Dean said impishly.  
“Richard’s gonna forget his own name soon enough,” Aidan said, with a lapful of Dean. He nuzzled the blonde’s neck affectionately, licked at a smudge of chocolate on the edge of those pouting, full lips- blowjob lips, it was generally said, and Dean didn’t mind in the slightest; if anything, it was rather a thing of pride- and folded his hands over the warm abdomen. “Look what I just ordered.” He removed one hand from Dean’s waist and dragged the laptop over to rest on there instead, flipped up the screen and pointed with a boyish giggle. They both looked at the screen in silence for a few seconds; for one awful moment, the Irishman thought he had made a ridiculous mistake.  
But then-  
“Oh, Aidan!” said Dean. “Now who’s the kinky motherfucker?”  
“That would be, you, Sergeant O’Gorman,” winked Aidan, flooded with relief, “and of course, DI Turner.”

***  
“It’s a pole!” exclaimed Tom, standing in the doorway and regarding the new addition with a furrowed brow. His confusion cleared after a moment. “Oh. Yeah. He did mention something about it, but I didn’t realise it was happening today.” Beside him, Benedict’s mouth had fallen into the perfect O of shock that Tom was growing, rapidly, to love. He slipped a hand into the one hanging loosely at the barman’s side.  
“I say. It is, isn’t it?” he managed. “I-”  
Words failed him at this point, and he just sort of goggled, until a gentle squeeze at his hand brought him back to reality, and he shook his head free of confusing thoughts and headed to the toilets to fix his hair. He had got it just perfect before he and Tom had left the house, but tussling kisses in the back of the taxi they’d taken to the club left him looking rather wild and adventurous; not a description Benedict, or anyone else, would have applied to the man. He stared at himself in the mirror above the nearest sink, and made a vague patting motion at his unruly curls. Was this really the visage of a man who dated pole dancers, he wondered. Did men who dated pole dancers need to straighten their hair? What kind of image did one maintain in this situation? Was his shirt nice enough? And when was a good time to go shopping for more tea?  
“You’re thinking too much,” announced Noel, practically pirouetting into the bathroom behind him, and looming in the mirror.  
“Goodness!” exclaimed Benedict. “Don’t creep up on people like that, Noel!”  
“I pirouetted,” Noel corrected him, touching a fingertip proudly to his eyeliner. “Stop thinking, man, you’re dating a stripper. Make the most of him.” He winked, and sauntered out again, humming a tune that doubtless no one else would recognise. Benedict certainly didn’t.

***  
“You’re going in there as happy little boyfriends,” growled Matt from behind the bins, as he poked Colin in the shoulder and shoved Bradley, the blonde who accompanied him, in the small of the back. “And if you mess up, you’ll come out as bodybags.” He wheeled round and stalked back to the car, where Mat sat in the driver’s seat, waiting for the moment the door closed to rev up and get them the hell out of there. Neither one really wanted a repeat encounter with Martin.

***

The two of them took stumbling steps round to the front of the club, smiled at the bouncers, showed ID and walked as confidently as they could into the den, as Matt had taken to calling it.  
“What are we doing here?” whispered Bradley.  
“We grab one of them and we leave,” whispered back Colin.  
Neither of them was comfortable with this plan, but the role of martyred heroes didn’t appeal either, because Matt would not make their passing painless, and chances are they wouldn’t even save all the people the raging maniac had it in for.  
“The curly haired stripper or the gangly bartender, yeah?” hissed Bradley. Colin nodded, deeply unhappy when he saw both of them up ahead, one on the stage in his pants and one safely tucked behind the bar, laughing easily with a black haired young man wearing a tonne of eye makeup. “Oh. Well, here we go, I guess,” he said, and they plunged into the midst of the crowds.

*** 

Of course, thought Benedict, the night couldn’t just go well, could it? It couldn’t pass without any opportunity for him to embarrass himself. Oh no. That would be too much like an easy life.  
The moment he knew he was doomed was when Tom decided to be the first one to get up and wrap himself around that damned pole.  
Legs akimbo and hips gyrating like one of Matt’s cheap whores, he was a sight that nearly brought the club to a standstill, and Benedict felt the unusual rise of something he suspected might be jealousy.  
“Bloody ‘ell,” said Noel, appreciatively. “You’re a lucky one. Would you look at that?”  
Benedict was looking. He couldn’t help but stare, could not drag his eyes away.  
“Ben?” said Noel. He waved a hand in front of the other barman’s face, and laughed when Benedict twitched, shook himself to his senses and cast a pained, surreptitious glance down at himself. “Oh, I get it,” he said mischievously. “It does things to you. ‘S understandable. He looks like an angel.” He cuffed the older man lightly on the shoulder. “I’m good here, man. if you need to- y’know- attend to something.”  
Benedict was mortified and his face flamed; Noel fortunately couldn’t see, because of all the dazzling, flashing strobe lighting. He just chuckled as his colleague slipped, embarrassed beyond belief, to the toilets, practically diving through the door like a terrified animal.  
“Be with you in a sec,” he called to the blonde man approaching the bar. He had a scrawny, dark haired boy on his arm. They were cute, Noel thought.  
“No worries,” said Bradley, sounded slightly strangled.

*** 

“Guess who just rushed off to the gents?” crowed Noel, sidestepping the people waiting to be served as he saw a sweat soaked Tom approach, sashaying gracefully through the parting crowd of admiring punters. “Your Benedict, that’s who!”  
“Oh, I say, is he alright?” asked Tom, instantly concerned. “He isn’t sick, is he? Matt hasn’t come in and-” His eyes were wide with unspoken horrible possibilities. Noel shook his head, fluffy hair falling into his eyes.  
“He’s fine,” he said, and leant in close to whisper straight into Tom’s ear. “He’s just monumentally turned on by you on that damn pole, is all.”  
“Oh, I say!” exclaimed Tom, slightly breathless at the idea. “Cover for me, Noel. You’re a star.”  
With that, he disappeared into the lavatory behind an extremely frustrated Benedict.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toilet sex! And in other news, Matt Smith does not give up easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my characters, just a humble fangirl with some words.

The toilets were, fortunately for Benedict’s purposes, deserted. He stumbled into the farthest cubicle and closed the door behind him with trembling hands, immensely distracted and rather distressed by the tenting of his smart trousers- which, if he messed in, he would have to change out of, and it would probably make him melt of embarrassment, rendered into a puddle of humiliated goo by the flaming heat of his own flushed face. Not good.  
He remembered this feeling… the guilty, confused turned-on feeling that he didn’t know what to do with.  
Well, he knew what to do, technically. It was the emotional bit he couldn’t deal with. The very act was all tangled up with feelings of guilt and inadequacy and not knowing anything, and- well, that’s not conducive to sexy times at all.  
Thank goodness it was only Noel who knew, and Noel was still out there. It would be fine, if only he could just make it go away. “It” being the tent in his trousers, sure, but also the image of a writhing, thrusting, swaying Tom in front of all those people, going at it with such joyful, seductive abandon and not caring that he was so exposed in front of all of them.  
No, it was no good.  
In an instant, his hand was down the front of those ever-so-smart, can’t-possibly-ruin-them trousers, slipping into plain grey underwear and gripping hot flesh with trembling fingers. It felt awfully crude, and he hoped it would be over quickly.  
“It’s what boys do. Honestly, is there anything about you that’s normal?”  
“I don’t- I don’t talk about it-“  
“Everyone else does. It’s the most normal fucking thing in the world. Come on, Ben. People already wonder why I’m going out with you, I’m beginning to wonder about it myself. If you can do it yourself why not do it for me?”  
That silky Irish voice pounded in his ears in time with the beat of his blood. He let out a sob and tugged himself faster, anything to get it over with, then he could go back to work and maybe tell Tom later that he was finding it awkward. Tom was a good man. Tom was-  
“Ben?” The voice sounded huskily outside the door. Fuck.  
Tom was here.

*** 

The toilets, fortunately for Tom’s purposes, seemed to be empty, with all the cubicle doors ajar except the last one, furthest away. He stepped right up to it, feeling a flush of anticipation colour his cheeks; on top of the adrenaline, this was making him feel exhilarated, naughty, giddy- just the knowledge that Ben was in there, pleasuring himself over Tom… He had to take a deep breath to steady himself.  
“Ben?” he called in a low voice- low from both necessity and lust.  
A sharp intake of breath from the other side of the door.  
“Ben?” he repeated, and knocked gently on the door. “Are you in there?”  
“No,” said Benedict, sounding miserable and strangled.  
“Are you alright?” Tom tried next.  
“No,” came the response.  
“I know what you’re doing,” Tom said quietly.  
“Oh crap- Tom, I’m sorry, I just-“  
“And I’d like to watch.”  
“WHAT?!”  
“Very much.”  
“I- oh- uh-”  
“Please?”  
“Ungh!”  
“Open the door?”  
Benedict’s ragged breathing was the only response this time.  
“Please? I’d like to see you,” murmured Tom. There was a pause, then a low grunt, and the rattling of the lock being slid back. The door swung outwards slightly, enough to admit Tom into the cubicle, and he clicked it shut behind him, turning to survey the flushed form of a very aroused Benedict with a low moan of approval. The barman stood with his back pressed against the side wall of the small enclosure, with his trousers bunched around his thighs, his cock straining in his hand, red and leaking and positively edible, Tom’s mind supplied. “You have no idea how absolutely beautiful you are,” he uttered, taking the tiniest step closer. “No, I won’t touch you. This isn’t about me. This is about you. All about you.”  
Benedict stared at him almost imploringly with those big wide pale eyes, and his dick twitched in his hand as if reminding him of its need.  
“Tell- me?” he faltered, hesitantly.  
“Tell you?” asked Tom.  
“Wh- what to do. I want…” His sentence was cut off by a moan rising, unbidden, from somewhere deep in his chest.  
Tom closed his eyes and when he opened them, it still wasn’t a wet dream. Having reassured himself of this, he nodded, perfectly happy to go along with this turn of events.  
“What would you do, if you were alone?” he whispered. “Pretend you’re alone, Ben. It’s not about me.” Benedict’s eyes still fixed on his face, and his hand began to move again. “Relax, baby. I just want to see you make yourself feel good.”  
Benedict gulped, looked down from Tom’s eyes to watch himself sliding, slick and red, through the grip of his own hand.  
“Doesn’t it look beautiful? Does it feel as good as it looks?” Tom murmured. “Oh, you’re leaking. You’re doing so well. Why don’t you… taste it?”  
“Fuck,” breathed Benedict, sliding his foreskin back and swiping one fingertip over the oozing slit to gather up the silvery bead of pre-come gathering there, bringing it to his lips. He looked back at Tom- it was all very well for him to tell Benedict to pretend to be alone but it was frankly impossible to do that, so he might as well be adventurous and put on a show. He smeared the liquid across his lower lip, fluttered his lashes without even realising he was doing it, and licked it up, moving his hand back down to touch his cock. He was desperate, his hips starting to stutter forwards in what Tom recognised as the last few moments.  
“Stop,” he said, suddenly.   
He’d meant it in warning, so that Ben could watch out for coming on his trousers, but the way Benedict stopped and trembled, head bowed, screamed “SUB” with such undeniable authority that Tom’s mind suddenly took a turn down a very new, different route. Benedict whimpered, tugged at himself again as if he couldn’t help it.   
“I said…stop,” repeated Tom. “Only bad boys don’t stop when they’re told to. Can you be a good boy, Benedict?”  
The use of his non-abbreviated name sent chills of anxious pleasure down Benedict’s back.  
“Yes…sir,” he managed. It seemed appropriate. Tom bit his lip.  
“Show me,” said Tom. “Hands off that nice hard cock of yours. You can come when you’ve proved to me that you can be sufficiently well-behaved as to deserve it.”  
Whimpering, Benedict let go, leaving his erection straining upwards, bobbing neglected against his stomach, still clad in a shirt. It was starting to get stained, but they were past caring.  
“Good boy,” Tom praised him. “Such a good boy, Ben. Unbutton your shirt for me. Show me. Stand here,” and he tapped his foot on the space directly in front of him. Benedict hesitated, then moved from his place leaning on the wall and faced the other man, flushed and humiliated and thoroughly enjoying it, opening each button as if unwrapping a present. “Touch your nipples. Left one first,” he ordered. “Get them nice and hard for me. Such a good boy for your master.”  
Benedict began massaging his left nipple, then brought his finger to his mouth and sucked it, starting on the right one with a wet fingertip that made him groan.  
“That wasn’t what I said, was it?” murmured Tom, wondering if it would be inappropriate to start wanking himself in this situation. It was, after all, meant to be building the other man’s confidence, but if he had such a knack for whoreish games, it was hardly Tom’s fault if his dick responded as if to a Siren’s call… “But… by all means carry on.”  
“Thank you, sir,” panted Benedict, and, really, now it was just unfair. Tom had to let the guy finish himself off after that.  
“You’re ever such a good boy,” he managed. “And good boys get to come. Pleasure yourself, Benedict. Let me see you come.”  
Well, Benedict wasn’t about to disobey an order like that- especially not now he had discovered he had a kink for them. His hand flew from his chest to his crotch, frantically pulling at his leaking cock and gasping increasingly incoherent things until suddenly he came, spurting over his torso and narrowly missing the undone shirt hanging around it. His head fell back, he practically screamed with relief, and then he fell on the floor.  
“I- I have never-” he croaked, after a while.  
“No,” said Tom, “but you definitely should again. Frequently. Oh hell.”

*** 

Richard was pleasantly surprised how well people had reacted to the introduction of a pole; there had been murmurs, from what he kindly called his more “discerning class of customer” that such an addition would lower the tone and bring “tacky riff-raff” into what was usually “such a classy environment”. People seemed, almost overwhelmingly, positive about it. Collaring one of the boys Tom had been doing his last routine with, he got out of him that Hiddleston had been the first one up and had set the tone so perfectly that people felt they couldn’t criticise in the slightest, and quite a few had been trying to find him to ask if he was quite sure he didn’t offer any extras.  
“Well, that’s marvellous! I’ll go and find him, tell him how well he did. He’s probably in line for some kind of bonus, too,” said Richard, with a new lighthearted jollity. Aidan and Dean were safely out of the way, but by the following day the necessary additions to the security at his house would be completed, so he wouldn’t need Dean to babysit up in the flat anymore; it took a weight off his mind and he was in an immensely good mood by the time he set off to hunt down Hiddleston.   
“I don’t know that you’ll find him,” drawled David, who had made one of his rare appearances at Armitage’s to celebrate winning an award from a prestigious food magazine by getting monumentally drunk and ogling naked men. It was generally the accepted way of celebrating anything.  
“Mr Tennant! How are you, sir?” Richard greeted him, once his eyes had adjusted enough to pick out the spiky haired Scotsman.  
“Drunk and extremely busy ogling your employees,” beamed David.  
“Glad to hear it,” said Richard, “but why won’t I find Hiddleston?”  
“Our lovebirds just discovered filthy bathroom sex,” supplied Noel, popping up from behind the bar with a shit-eating grin. “It’s quite cute really.”  
“Pardon?” asked Richard, who couldn’t imagine Benedict doing anything remotely grubby, let alone filthy.  
“They’re still in the toilets,” said David helpfully. “I’ve been watching the door since Noel told me.”  
A wide grin split Richard’s face and he slapped Noel on the shoulder.  
“Fucking fantastic!” he said, approvingly. “Benedict’s outdone himself!” He took a step towards the door, then glanced back behind him, and, on seeing the pained faces of Noel and David, he backtracked. “No, you’re right,” he agreed, “I’ll wait out here too, I think.”

***   
“Well, what do we do now?” asked Bradley, who had run his hands through his hair so many times that it stood on end like blonde grass. “We can’t go in there and break up a bonking couple. Even the owner is keeping out! There’s no way we’d get them out of there, everyone’s watching the fucking door!”  
“We have to!” said Colin unhappily.  
“WE CAN’T!” yelled Bradley furiously, and Colin stepped back, a tad scared.  
“Hey, hey, boys, what’s up? Anything I can help you with?” asked Richard, who hated seeing unhappy customers. “Drink on the house, maybe?”  
The irony of his request was not lost on Colin or Bradley, and the former began to dissolve into hysterics, knowing full well that the moment they stepped out of the club without either of their prey, they would be dead men walking.  
“Oh- shit, did I just-”  
“No, it’s not you,” lied Bradley. “We’re just having a- bit of a tough time. C’mere, Colin, give us a hug.”  
“Oh, tell me about it,” said Richard. “Life can be a right bitch!”  
“Yeah,” said Bradley, not really sure where this was going. “It is.”

***   
Finally, Tom and Benedict decided they were ready to exit the toilets.  
“I’m amazed,” began Benedict.  
“So am I,” grinned Tom, straightening the bartender’s shirt as best he could. “That was nothing if not unexpected, and really fucking hot!” The smell of sex clung to them both, although, contrary to opinion outside the door, they hadn’t actually fucked, because, come on, give Benedict s bit of time to get over years of fearing all things sexual!  
“No, I mean- well, yes it was, I don’t mean it wasn’t, I just mean- that’s not what I was going to say,” bumbled the barman. “I mean I am amazed nobody else came in. All that time, and no one even ventured in here.” Suddenly, a cold wave of realisation flooded him. “Oh, I say!” he exclaimed, scandalised. “Noel must have told people. There’s probably a queue a mile long outside waiting for us to come out and they’ll all know!” Mortification returned, and Tom drew him into a comforting hug, distracting him momentarily with licks from a hot, wet tongue that he’d promised would grace other parts of Benedict’s eager body in the very near future.  
“No, it’s fine,” he said, finally ceasing the licking. “They’ll probably all be super supportive, Ben. I mean, one, they’re our friends, and two, it’s something to be celebrated. You’ll probably have a reputation for laddishness,” he winked.  
“Laddishness?” blinked Benedict. “Me?”  
“Yes, my darling, you,” cooed Tom affectionately, steering him towards that dreaded door.

***   
“Well, look who it is!” cheered Noel, as they emerged, arms round one another, one bashful and the other grinning.  
“I hear some congratulations are in order,” Richard said, a smile twitching at his face. “Though by rights I ought to be displeased that you ditched your posts for so long…”  
“Aw, man, don’t be a spoilsport!” David whined, practically on the floor, clinging to the edge of the bar. “Congratulate the randy little fuckers and then- whoops…” The last word was muffled as he fell with a thump onto the carpeted floor.  
“Balls,” said Richard, mildly. “Someone get David a taxi, please. Hiddleston, a brief word, if you wouldn’t mind. No, you’re not in trouble. It’s positive feedback time.”   
Benedict took up his place at Noel’s side again and watched as their boss withdrew with Tom to a secluded corner to chat. There were fewer people at the bar now, Noel having dealt with the rush earlier in the night admirably by himself. He poured himself a drink and stared into the middle distance for a bit, forgetting Noel was even there until the man poked him.  
“Oi. Ben. Pass us that box of straws, man. You’ve got a severe case of fuckbrain,” he said.  
Benedict obligingly passed the box, didn’t question what a diagnosis of “fuckbrain” entailed.  
“You ok?” asked Noel.  
“More than ok,” smiled Benedict. “I just discovered- well.” He glanced at his feet. He liked Noel, but was it appropriate to discuss kinks with a work colleague? Mind you, Noel was nothing if not outside ordinary categorisation and boundaries, so, feeling emboldened and still riding high from the adrenaline and endorphins coursing through his bloodstream, he carried on with a sentence he would never have dreamed of uttering before. “I just discovered a new kink.”  
“Oh, bloody good on you!” said Noel, enthusiastically. “Come here, you. Hug time!”  
As Noel enfolded him in an exuberant bear hug, Benedict mused on the simple pleasantness of human contact, and realised he’d never done this before, not just with Noel but with anyone who didn’t know him extremely well- which limited his options a lot. Noel also smelt very nice. Benedict wondered if all people smelt nice, and he just hadn’t noticed before.  
There was such a lot he’d missed out on.  
“Thanks,” he said, when Noel let him go, and he meant it.  
“You’re welcome,” beamed Noel. “Oh bollocks. David’s still on the fucking floor. Do I have to do everything around here? C’mon, Ben. Let’s get the bastard out of here.”

***

“Right, he’s a lot heavier than he looks,” said Noel, standing by the back exit, with David propped between himself and Benedict. “Where’s the taxi anyway? There’s always one around when you haven’t got a lanky comatose Scot on your shoulder.”  
“Here we go,” said Benedict, as lights appeared at the end of the road. “I’ll pay them for now, I’ve got cash on me. It will hardly be anything, but I don’t fancy dragging him home.”  
“No, we know what you fancy,” winked Noel. “Hey, mate,” he greeted the driver. He handed him David’s address, and Benedict leant over to hand him the fare.  
At that moment, several things happened at once. Someone sprang from the back of the vehicle, and someone from the front. Noel dropped David, swore, and karate kicked at the nearest of them, catching him in the shin. The second one bundled a screaming Benedict into the back of the cab and forced a needle into his bare arm, then the driver scrambled out and shoved Noel in behind him. He climbed back in, revved the car, and clumsily slammed the door as an afterthought.  
The cab roared off down the road, and when Tom and Richard came out to see what the scream had been, there was no indication it had ever arrived, just David sprawled comatose on the pavement, dappled in streetlight and shadow, and an eerie silence in the street.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it is generally accepted that Matt is an unstable lil shit, and Tom cries a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I certainly don't own these characters. I just play in the sandbox of fantasy with them.

Richard had never seen Tom cry before. Hiddleston was usually so professional, the chirpiest of the bunch, appearing out of nowhere like a fucking sunbeam, and it bothered him that the realisation of Benedict’s abduction hit him like a tonne of bricks and made him completely lose it, terror washing over him. Tears sprang into his wide blue eyes and he began to shake, running his hand through his hair frantically, making it wild and unruly.  
“Oh fuck,” he said, wiping the back of the other hand across his mouth, “oh shit, fuck, shit they’ve got Ben. They’ve fucking got Ben. The swine!” He choked on the words. “Have you got a car here?” he asked, suddenly.  
“Yes,” said Richard.  
“Then fucking get in it and follow that taxi!” shouted Tom.

*** 

Sprawled in the back of the cab, Noel held Benedict’s head in his lap, making sure it didn’t loll too much and smack into the door. There was no way he could have got out, not with the blonde on one side and the gangly Irishman on the other, both wedging him in place- besides, even if he’d had the opportunity, there was Benedict to consider. He was unconscious and about as vulnerable as a man could be, and Noel wouldn’t have dreamt of leaving him.  
“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” he asked the dark haired man, with barely concealed bafflement beneath his outraged fury. He’d heard talk about the psycho after Aidan- Matt, he’d been called- but when you started being abducted by ordinary punters then- well, what on earth was the world coming to? “You were gonna get drinks on the house, and all! The hell’s your game?”  
“If you want to continue addressing the monkey,” said a cool voice from the front, “by all means, feel free. Most people, however, would rather speak to the organ grinder.”  
“And that would be you?” said Noel, sarcastically.  
“It would,” said Matt. “Matt Smith. I’d say at your service, but I’m really not.”  
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” muttered Noel.  
“All terrifying, I hope,” smirked Matt in the mirror. Noel shrugged a shoulder as high up as he could with Bradley leaning into him and compressing him down into the seat.  
“Nah, just a bit…shit, really,” he said.  
The taxi swerved, screeched, and took a chunk out of an inconveniently placed wall. The drunken students peeing against it screamed, and fled, regardless of the situation with their pants, and Noel was thrown against Colin, who squawked.  
“Alright, man, calm down! Take a joke, can’t you?” exclaimed Noel, clinging to the headrest of the driver’s seat. “Honestly- you try and lighten up a kidnapping…”  
He subsided into silence, and inside he was terrified. Chances were nobody would even have noticed they were missing yet, and goodness only knows where this cretin was taking them- surely it would not be anywhere easy to find, like his house. What did he even plan to do with them? He seemed completely off his rocker- that’s what Richard had said- and Noel had quite possibly never been so close to shitting himself before. To top it all off, Benedict still hadn’t woken up. This was serious.

***   
“Don’t tell Aidan.”  
The message on Dean’s phone sent chills down his spine. It was the day before they were going back to Richard’s house. He’d started to feel safe again- just that little bit too soon, he cursed, kicking the carpet.  
“What’s up, babe?” yawned Aidan. He was wandering around the kitchenette, clad in a pair of Richard’s black boxers and a smile. “Has the club shut yet? Still sounds pretty busy.”  
“Yeah. Does, doesn’t it?” said Dean, forcing a smile.  
“Deano. Something’s up,” wheedled Aidan, padding across the floor. He reached for Dean’s phone, and Dean drew it away. “Deeeeean.”  
“No, Aidan,” said Dean. “No. The only thing that’s up…” He planted a kiss on the Irishman’s lips, smiling into the taste of Ribena and tea, “is this.” Bumping his crotch into Aidan’s own, he elicited a small giggling moan from the curly haired man, and worked his fingers slowly into his scalp. “Richard’s not gonna be up here for a while, it’s just the two of us.”  
“Are you seducing me, Mr O’Gorman?” whispered Aidan, tilting his head back. Dean started on his neck, licking over the evening shadow darkening his jaw.  
“Yes,” smiled Dean, “am I doing ok?”  
“I’m very much enjoying it,” Aidan assured him, “I’m just wondering… why I’m still wearing these.”

***   
“This is useless!” stormed Tom.  
“Hiddleston, calm down,” said Richard, his voice low in what would normally be a soothing tone, but in this instance merely riled Tom even further. He smashed his fist down into the glove compartment and gritted his teeth, almost roaring in his frustration.  
“Don’t Hiddleston me!” he growled, “please, Sir, please just- don’t.”  
“Ok. Ok, I’m sorry,” said Richard, slowing for a red light. “Don’t- feel obliged to call me Sir, either.”  
There was a silence in the car, and Richard realised that Tom’s shoulders were shaking, that silent sobs were wracking his slim body. He reached out a hand to the younger man’s shoulder.  
“Tom,” he said gently.  
“Oh hell, Richard,” blurted the man, helplessly, leaning into the touch. “What are we doing here? It’s just- I can’t- what’s happening to him? Matt could- he could be- oh, Benedict!” He fumbled in his pockets, rummaging through his trousers and the jacket slung around his bare shoulders. “Shit, no phone,” he muttered. “Richard. Please, call the police. Please, we can’t wait any longer, we can’t do this alone. I just want Ben back, I need Ben back. Please.”

***   
Noel was bundled out of the cab with about as much finesse a he’d been bundled into it. His hair was a mess, and his legs ached from being scrunched up so close in the back of that damn cab, and he had precisely zero clues where they had ended up. Benedict was coming around, slurring unintelligible noises and lurching from Colin to Bradley and back again; Matt wouldn’t let Noel hold him, and that made him unspeakably angry, but there really was nothing he could do about it, except let himself be shoved up a flight of stairs and through some darkened rooms, stumbling over furniture legs and bumping into edges of doorways obscured by the shadows, and finally collapse on the floor in a fairly spacious but sparse room which looked, from what he could make out in the gloom, like a bedroom.  
“Ben,” he whispered, as soon as they had left the two of them alone. “Benedict, ‘s me. Noel. Are you awake, man? Are you still with us?”  
Benedict retched, but brought nothing up, just dry heaving horribly into a corner and flinching away from Noel’s touch like a cornered animal ready for the slaughter.  
“No, no, it’s me,” Noel kept repeating, over and over; finally, it seemed to get through.  
“Noel?” he croaked. “What happened to David?” Considerate of others, as always. Then, sounding rather worried, “Are we dead?”

*** 

The bed creaked under the weight of two giggling, naked men. Dean’s phone, kicked underneath the carpet, buzzed a few more times, but its owner’s breath in Aidan’s ear, and his wandering hands, and the strain of easily excited and persistent erections kept both of them distracted. There was a yelp as Dean’s teeth sank hungrily into Aidan’s neck; neither of them knew which one it came from, but it didn’t matter because, rutting like stags, they both came within seconds, and Aidan collapsed down on top of Dean, nuzzling affectionately, having completely forgotten his original question.   
“Nnngh,” he said, happily.  
“Yeah,” breathed Dean. “That.”  
Aidan chuckled into his collarbone, and closed his eyes. His arms wrapped themselves lovingly around the shorter man’s body, and they lay , not speaking, on Richard’s bed, waiting for their breathing to even out.  
Before exhausted satiation claimed him to the mists of sleep, Dean felt a twinge of guilt for using Aidan’s rampant sex drive to avoid an awkward conversation, and wondered how Richard and Tom were getting on.

*** 

Dawn broke, and with it, Tom’s resolve not to cry in front of any outsiders.  
There had been no progress since they’d contacted the police, burst into the station, explained as calmly as anyone could be expected to explain that their friends had been kidnapped by a maniac, whose name they knew, and whose address they could doubtless find out, and this wasn’t an isolated case, they’d been threatened and harassed by this man, and they’d complained to the police about him before, and nothing seemed to have changed. The inspector was cynical. He knew about the previous complaint, knew that Richard ran a strip joint and Tom was his employee, knew that both the victims also worked at the establishment. He recognised the name Matt Smith, knew he was, as described his sergeant “seedy as fuck”- and, critically, thought himself far above all these people. An uncompromising public school education and rejection by both his first choice of university and the first love of his life had drained DI John Simm of the milk of human sympathy and imbued him with bitter superiority. He had no intention of helping these grubby little people when there were decent people being burgled.  
“We’re doing all we can,” he said, not even bothering to feign honesty. “We’ll get your… friends” he practically sneered his way around the insinuation “back. Yes.”  
The repulsion of his expression twisted across his face a split second before he turned away, turned to leave, turned to forget all about them. Tom caught it, saw everything it held, every judgement and disgust behind those cold eyes, and tears sprang up, prickling the edges of his eyes. Richard reached for his shoulder.  
“I’ll let you know when progress is made,” said the sergeant, clearly embarrassed, and he hurried after Simm, looking at the ground. Tom took a deep breath, headed for the exit.  
“Like fuck you will!” growled Richard, striding after the other man. “Come on, Tom. We should get out of here. We can’t help them sitting around here being sorrowful.”  
“It’s all my fault,” moaned Tom. “What’s going to happen to them, Richard? What if I never- what- what if-”  
Sobs, and the enormity of the possibility he couldn’t get out of his head, overtook him. It was quite several minutes before he recovered enough to finish the sentence, resting his head in the crook of Richard’s neck and shoulder.  
“What if I never get to see Ben again?” he whispered, shakily.

***   
“Well, we’re bloody stuck!” announced Noel, perched in the window.  
The light switch, they had established, did not work, so they had been forced to wait until daylight began to trickle in through the tatty curtains to allow them to fully take in their surroundings. When dawn reached them, Noel made various attempts at escape. None of them came remotely close to success. Benedict was still suffering the after effects of whatever Matt had stuck in his bloodstream, and his head was pounding. He lay on the floor, occasionally whimpering without meaning to. That hurt his head even more.  
“What absolute wankers!” Noel muttered to the windowsill, staring down at it accusingly. “And they were going to get free drinks, too. I don’t understand the world.”  
Benedict made a strange, small, sorry little sound, and pushed his nose further into the raggedy carpet.   
The knock on the door startled them both- surely crazed villains did not knock? Least of all on the doors of their own kidnap lairs?  
The knock was followed almost immediately by a key twisting on the lock, then a small gap as the door was pushed open. A face glanced through the gap, saw their dejected stances, and was followed into the gloomy room by a lithe, well-dressed body. The man closed the door and leant against it, regarding Noel, then Benedict, then Benedict, then Noel, with huge brown Minstrel eyes.  
“I’m armed,” he said, conversationally, “but not dangerous, and the only reason I’m here is to help.”

*** 

Mat felt a surge of guilt the moment he laid eyes on the bartender on the floor. The man was lying flat out, nose to the ground, clearly suffering, and he looked just about as helpless and vulnerable as a human being could. He would be betraying Matt Smith and everything the man stood for- but seeing as how that seemed to be, increasingly, along the lines of “I’m great and reality can fuck off”, maybe it was justifiable- if he let these people go… but that’s what they were. People. Innocent people, for that matter.  
“Here to help?” parroted Noel. He was baffled. Noel wasn’t easily baffled, usually being on the other side of the experience. “You bloody abducted us!”  
“That wasn’t by choice!” Mat said, scuffing his foot and suddenly looking like a schoolboy. The focus was now on him, and Noel sprang from the windowsill, hands on hips, stared sternly down his nose at the man. Mat raised melting brown eyes to the unforgiving gaze. “It wasn’t my fault!” he burst out, petulantly, then realised he sounded like Matt, and shook himself out of it. “Look, I’m here to get you out of here. If you’re going to be bitchy and judgemental, forget it. I’m sure Matt will have a marvellous time removing your limbs to send to that employer of yours.”  
Benedict hauled himself into a sitting position, tired, drawn and red-eyed. He was enough to guilt trip anyone into setting a victim or two free. Mat was appropriately chastised.  
“Let us out then,” Noel said.  
“Ok,” said Mat. “But you’ll have to make it look convincing. Ready for a fight?”  
“Always!” beamed Noel, all businesslike cheekiness. “On your feet, Benedict, come on man. Upsie daisy! We have some arse to kick in.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a long way back to safety, but Tom makes everything worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer- I don't own any of the characters. I can only dream.

It was all very well the man with the chocolate eyes encouraging them to punch him about a bit- and usually Benedict would be as willing, nay, keen, as the next man to exact revenge on his kidnapper- but his blood still coursed with the poisonous remnants of Matt’s drug of choice, and he felt groggy, unsteady, hungover and childlike. Noel was more than enthusiastic enough for the two of them, however, and they left behind a sprawled, winded, battered heap of Baynton, rather wishing he hadn’t been quite so generous.  
“Fucking success!” crowed Noel, as soon as he felt they were a safe distance, several twisty, anonymous streets, away. “We’re out!”  
Benedict crumpled to his knees.  
“Oh, balls!” exclaimed Noel, flinging himself down alongside his friend, awkwardly half cradling him and running the back of one hand across Benedict’s sweat-dampened forehead. “You ok, Ben?”  
“Mmhmmf. Where are we?” asked Benedict.  
“I haven’t a clue. Some scum hole,” Noel said frankly. He looked around, not recognising anything he saw. “We need to keep going til we find somewhere we know.” Benedict hadn’t replaced his phone since losing it in the fight after Mat and Matt ambushed them, and Noel had left his under the bar at the club, and to top it all off, neither of them had any money on them either. They had nothing but the clothes they stood in, and a sense of confused determination to beat the bastards. “There must be a sign post somewhere round here, even Hell has a North and a South.” Benedict didn’t even pretend to know what he was on about, just got to his feet and accepted the arm Noel linked through his own.  
They wandered through various smelly alleyways, skirting skips full of broken furniture and shattered glass, ducking under fallen washing lines and deliberately not making eye contact with anyone they happened to pass. The area was pitiful, the bare bones of civilisation overlaid with scraps of the worn flesh of humanity. Skinny figures skittered about in the shadows of tower blocks, in the nooks and crannies daylight hadn’t graced for a very long time, indistinguishable from each other. There was, of course, no way that Noel could pass unnoticed among such people. It was hardly surprising that the man with the big haunted eyes and the funny smelling cigarette picked him for a fight.  
“Oi! The fuck are you playing at?”  
When the man ran up, Noel stepped in front of Benedict.   
When he spat in Noel’s face and swung the first punch, Benedict staggered round the side and tripped him up with the simple extension of one long limb. Noel’s would-be attacker went down like a tonne of bricks, and Noel, glancing round and seeing his cronies coming out of their hovels filled with righteous indignation, saved his praise for later.  
“Run!” he said, at the same time Benedict said “let’s go!”   
So they did.

***   
“It’s today, we can leave! We can go to Richard’s!”   
Aidan’s gleeful voice sang in Dean’s sleepy ear and when he opened his eyes, the man himself was dancing round the bedroom trying to get some extremely skinny jeans over his thighs.   
“Have I got fat?” he demanded, lurching onto the bed and tugging at the denim that resolutely refused to budge.  
“No,” said Dean, regarding him with one eye open, the other still clinging to the hope of sleep.  
“You’re awake!” beamed Aidan. He bent to plant a kiss on Dean’s nose.  
“Yeah, didn’t really have much choice, did I?” said Dean. “Morning, by the way.”  
“Did I wake you up?” asked Aidan, suddenly contrite.  
“Yeah,” said Dean.  
“Let me make it up to you,” said Aidan, brightly. “How’s about I suck you off?”  
It didn’t look like Dean would be needing to leave the bed for a good while yet, he thought happily.

***   
Collapsing against the battered signpost, Noel pulled Benedict into a sloppy embrace and ruffled his curly hair. “You were bloody brilliant,” he said. “Tripping that wanker up like that. My gangly, flamingo-legged hero!” He deposited a theatrical kiss on Benedict’s cheek. “You feeling any less shitty? We’re getting closer to home, I recognise some of these names,” gesturing up at the sign. “I promise you we’ll be safe soon.”  
“Matt will have noticed we’ve gone,” Benedict said, sombre now. “I shan’t feel safe until I know he can’t drag us back.” He shivered. “Come on, got to keep walking.”

***

“WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?”  
Matt had indeed discovered the loss of his trophies. Mat had managed to sneak Bradley and Colin out, sent them back to the seedy club they frequented and told them to stay there for as long as possible, “and for goodness sake bring back some cash for him when you finish”. He was prepared to face the man himself. He really did believe Matt wouldn’t kill him. It was some small comfort, at least, so he chose to keep believing it.  
“I SHOULD FUCKING WELL FUCK YOU OVER MYSELF!”  
Maybe not.  
“YOU HAD ONE JOB, BAYNTON.”  
“I think we underestimated them,” said Mat, and meant it. He kept the damp flannel pressed to the worst, most violently red, cut on his face.  
“OR MAYBE YOU’RE JUST MORE USELESS THEN I DARED CONSIDER!”  
“With all due respect, they’re not just lily livered pretty boys,” Mat said. “They’ve got some strength behind them. And we did violently abduct them. What are you going to do? Call the police?” He mimed the phone gesture with the thumb and pinkie finger of his free hand, adopted a high pitched voice that made Matt frown disapprovingly. “Phone them up and be all ‘Sergeant, Sergeant, our kidnap victims punched me round the face and ran off, fetch them back immediately’. It doesn’t really work that way, Matt.”  
“FEIGNING SMARTNESS DOESN’T FUCKING SUIT YOU, MATHEW!”  
Matt raged on and on, paced up and down, broke things, and suddenly lunged forwards. Palm outstretched, he slapped Mat across the face like an outraged housewife. Mat cringed, then set his shoulders back.  
“I think you might need to be more sympathetic,” he said calmly. “After all, you’ll be needing me on side, if you’re really going to do what you set out to do.” He straightened his shirt, swept back his hair, left the room.  
“Was that- a threat?” Matt asked the carpet. It just stared its garish Seventies pattern back up at him. He took that as a no. “He wouldn’t. No. He wouldn’t,” he said, emphatically. “I’m Matt fucking Smith, after all.”

***   
Benedict refused to get in the taxi, even when it voluntarily stopped at the sight of the two exhausted men with their feet dragging and their eyes drooping, and the jovial cabbie asked them where they needed to be, and said they wouldn’t have to pay a thing. Noel couldn’t really blame him, and so only made a half hearted attempt to convince him otherwise.  
“Nah, we’re good, ta mate,” he lied, and the cabbie shrugged, gave a casual salute, and drove away again. “We’re not good, but we’re nearly home,” he confided, as soon as they were alone by the side of the road again.  
“Nearly isn’t good enough,” said Benedict, rubbing at his ankle. It had been hurting for a while now, weakened by the ungainly way he’d been squished into the cab, and aggravated again by the long distance they had trudged. “Only Tom is good enough.” This latter part was said almost inaudibly, and Noel wasn’t sure what the actual words were, but didn’t ask. In fact, neither man said any more until the club loomed into sight like the father of the prodigal son, and they stumbled towards it, banged at the door, and let out shouts of “Tom!” and “Fucking lemme in, Richard!” in unison.

***   
Back at Richard’s house, Tom sat staring into the distance, bolt upright, on a sofa too expensive and too luxurious for him to feel comfortable. Aidan had reacted badly. They’d had to tell him, Dean having kept him distracted for as long as he could- mostly, it had to be said, by shoving his cock down the eager throat- because arriving home at some unearthly hour when dawn had already broken, with Tom red-eyed and shaking, took some explaining, and Richard couldn’t lie any longer. Aidan was upstairs, refusing to see Tom, feeling it would be too awful.  
“It’s my fault, all my fault,” he said. “He has every right to hate me.”  
“I don’t hate him,” Tom said, emotionlessly. He had cried himself hoarse, worried himself into blank beige numbness. “I don’t feel anything. It’s all gone. Ben’s gone.”  
“They said they’d call,” Dean said, having been filled in on the bare bones of the story.  
“They won’t,” said Tom. “We’re nothing to them.”

***   
One of the windows in the building adjacent from the club was pushed open, and a groggy looking face inserted itself through the gap.  
“Can’t you see it’s closed?” it grumbled.  
“Where’s Richard? Where’s Armitage- the owner? Where’s the club’s owner? He’s usually here!” said Noel.  
“How the dickens should I know? I’m just glad he’s not, for once. Probably went back to his swanky house down the road. Took those pretty boys of his with him, it’s all incredibly seedy if you ask me.”  
“We didn’t,” said Benedict icily. It surprised them both. Noel clicked his fingers in a Z formation, then remembered to ask the address; neither of them had had the privilege of going to, or even knowing the whereabouts of, Richard’s big house.  
“Again, I don’t know!” said the irate neighbour, and retreated to his lair.  
“Well, isn’t this an absolute piss poor excuse for a homecoming?” declared Noel. “Come on. Tennant’s will be open. David might not be around, little alkie that he is, but someone must be.”  
With a groan, Benedict followed him down the streets to Tennant’s Lounge. His ankle was really starting to kill.

***   
“There’s nothing in the cupboards,” said Richard, joining Dean and Tom on the sofa, “and we could all do with something to eat. It’s been a hideous night.”  
“You want us to leave? We’ve only just got here,” objected Dean.  
“I don’t want any of us to starve,” said Richard sensibly, “and we can look in on David if we go to Tennant’s.”  
This appealed to Tom’s desire to help everyone at the same time, and he dragged himself to his feet with something resembling a spark of purpose in his eyes.  
“We need to make sure David’s ok,” he agreed. “You and Aidan can stay here if you’d like. We can bring something back for you while we’re out.”  
And so it was that as Tom pushed open the door to Tennant’s Lounge, his eyes fell on the sight of his beloved, exhausted and crumpled, lying with his face turned towards the wall, his hair fanning out across the shiny tabletop on which his head rested, like a brunette halo, and thought he must be dreaming. He let out a gasp, and stumbled over his own foot. Richard caught his elbow.  
“What’s up?” he asked.  
Tom couldn’t speak. He stepped forwards, and on shaking legs approached the table on which Benedict’s head lay. Noel came out of the toilets just around the corner, and his face broke into a grin of sheer relief.  
“Ben!” he exclaimed, sliding into the seat beside him, patting his face. “Ben, it’s ok, we found them. Or they found us. Either way- Tom’s here!”

*** 

He’d dozed off on the tabletop almost immediately, much like an exhausted child. Noel’s voice shook him from his reverie, with the sweetest words he could have hoped for. He raised his weary head, turned his face to the sound of the voice. Tom stood over him like a saintly apparition, his blonde curls awry and his face wracked with tiredness, Richard at his shoulder, relief etched into every line that had previously been a hieroglyph of worry.  
“Darling, you’re back!” was all Tom could manage. Then, “are you hurt?”  
“We were rescued,” said Benedict. “And just my ankle. It’s nothing.”  
“By whom?” asked Tom. Noel budged up enough to allow Tom to squash onto the bench the other side of Benedict, making him the filling in a warm, secure sandwich of love, while Richard went to order drinks and croissants.  
“One of Matt’s sidekicks, actually,” said Benedict, slipping his hand into Tom’s beneath the table, warm against Tom’s reassuringly muscular thigh. “It was an inside job. But Noel was quite heroic too.”  
“Well, I say!” said Tom, and then smiled, realising he’s picked up the mannerism from Benedict. “I suppose there are still good people in the world- I would never have had one of them down as working for that crazy evil bastard though.”  
“You know who else was working for him,” said Noel conversationally, “that nice young couple we were gonna give free drinks to!” He still sounded deeply indignant. “The Irish kid and his blonde boyfriend.”  
“Rubbish!” said Tom.  
“Is not!” protested Noel, and Benedict backed him up on this. “They stuffed us into that taxi like right little thugs!”  
“They’re probably not willingly working for him,” amended Tom, remembering the whole sorry situation with Aidan. “Maybe they just don’t have any choice?”  
“Croissant?” offered Richard, setting down a plate piled with them beside Tom, as a shy looking waiter put the coffee down and hurried quickly away. Tom picked one up, broke a piece from the end, and fed it into Benedict’s willing mouth as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “We should get you two home,” continued Richard, “and then you can speak to that git of a detective- maybe he’ll believe you, seeing as how you were actually kidnapped,” he added bitterly. Richard was not used to being ignored.  
“First of all,” said Tom, “we’re going to finish our breakfast. Then, Ben’s going back to his house, and he’s going to sleep. We’re going to put something soothing on his ankle, and if I have to sing him to sleep myself, that’s exactly what I’ll do!”  
Benedict ducked his head, blushing a very attractive pink shade, and Tom smiled affectionately, then turned his attention to Noel, feeling bad for leaving him out.   
Richard stood over them, much like a lion guarding his cubs, and stared out the window across the street, imagining he could see enemies ready to ambush them in every shadow. Matt’s face, his gangly silhouette, haunted every movement on the street, every twist of colour could materialise into his leering smile. Something needed to change.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard and Ben try to return to normal life, and Aidan's plan with the kinky policemen's outfits takes a slightly slapstick turn. Meanwhile, Noel develops a strange affection for a cabbage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory disclaimer that I own nobody. Except maybe the cabbage. I own that.

After the croissants and coffee had been consumed, Richard had remembered to go and check on David (who was alive, and hungover to the point of having “a fucking moose stampeding through me head”, as he eloquently explained it) at which point Tom felt like a terrible human being for forgetting about him, but Richard told him not to worry about it, “just make sure you get you and Benedict back home safely, and call me when you’re sorted”. Tom had nodded, wrapped his hand in a tighter grip around his boyfriend’s forearm and rubbed soothing circles on the soft skin inside his wrist with one finger. Benedict practically purred.  
“What will you do?” asked Tom.  
“I’ve got shopping to do for my boys. They’ll get cranky if I don’t restock the larder,” Richard smiled wryly. “Have a safe journey, lads.”  
“Don’t get fucking abducted,” piped Noel. Richard had glared at him, but when he glanced sideways at Tom, he was smiling. He had Benedict safely within his hold again, what reason did he have not to smile?  
And so here they were. Back at Benedict’s house. Benedict’s ankle started throbbing the moment he sat down, but what he felt he needed, more than anything at the time, was a bath. A long soak. With bubble bath and then a sleep to follow. Preferably curled around Tom. He said as much to Tom, but omitted the last bit; he was fairly sure Tom wouldn’t get all sexy on him at this moment, not when he was in this state, but he didn’t want to have to awkwardly turn him down if he did try something. So he kept the last part to himself. Tom realised he was struggling though, and ran him the bath while Benedict downed painkillers and fetched clean clothes for them both.

***   
Richard was still out on his mission for groceries when the buzzer went, nearly startling the life out of poor Dean, who jumped and dropped the book he was reading, completely losing his page. The buzzer shouldn’t be going though, should it? Richard wasn’t expecting anyone?   
Oh fuck.  
It was Matt, wasn’t it? He’d come to demand a ransom, come to deliver Benedict’s severed ear in a jam jar or something equally vile.  
Dean scrabbled for his phone. He needed to get Richard back here. Richard, and some heavily armed police officers.  
Swiping his finger across the screen, it flashed to life, displayed a missed call and a message, both from Richard.  
“Noel and Benedict escaped, both fine. Getting food xx” he read in disbelief.  
The buzzer went again.  
Dean ignored it.  
“Aidan!” he shouted. “Aid, come here, they’ve escaped!”  
Aidan tumbled down the staircase and tripped over his own eager feet, eyes bright with childlike hope, almost snatching the phone from Dean’s hands.  
“They’re free, they’re free they’re free!” he chanted, and dragged Dean into a victory dance around the sofa.  
For the third time, the buzzer sounded, this time long and insistent. The two of them stopped dancing, stopped dead in their tracks.  
“Who the fuck is that?” Dean wondered aloud. Aidan’s face, momentarily startled, split into his widest, most infectiously boyish grin, and he laughed.  
“That’s probably the delivery guy, bringing our kinky police outfits,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Here, where’s the intercom in this place? We need to buzz this chap in, Deano. We need those outfits, and it’s such a good job Richard’s not back yet because it’ll be the most fucking perfect surprise for him if he hasn’t the faintest idea-”  
“You’re rambling,” said Dean, who had found the intercom. “Hullo?” he said.  
“Oh, thank goodness. I was just about to give up- and I don’t think this is the sort of package you’d want to pick up from one of the neighbours,” came the voice from the other end.  
“Heh,” said Aidan, “package.”  
Dean gave him A Look, and carried on.  
“Well, we’ll come down and meet you, be there in a sec. I’m not sure how these gates work to be honest, they’re new, our…housemate is out at the moment.”  
“Rightio,” said the man cheerily.  
Dean turned to Aidan at the front door, and looked intently into his eyes.  
“Stay close to me, and if this guy looks remotely suspicious, we punch his fucking lights out,” he said- quite the most to-the-point pep talk the Irishman had ever received. He nodded, and they opened the door. Five minutes later, they returned, unharmed, with Aidan gleefully brandishing a large cardboard box.  
“How long do you reckon until Richard gets home?” he asked.

*** 

Benedict lay in the bath and let out a long, loud noise of pure bliss, sinking as far as he could beneath the softness of scented bubbles. They floated their way across his chest, across his torso, bobbed around his tired limbs, soothing the sore ache of being on the run for so long.   
He’d left the door slightly ajar, but Tom was busy in the living room, having asked to borrow Ben’s laptop to check his emails.   
Maybe one day, thought Benedict dreamily, he’d be brave enough to have Tom in the bathroom with him. Did people have baths together? He didn’t really know. His bath seemed awfully small for two men over six foot tall to be in together- but maybe by that point there wouldn’t be any awkwardness between the two of them. Maybe one day they’d even sleep together. Benedict’s cheeks pinkened from more than just the hot water at this thought, as he remembered the absolute filthy delight of that little episode in the toilets. He wriggled his toes in the soap suds pleasurably, and thought that one day he might even have a normal relationship with Tom. He closed his eyes, the small hopeful smile curving his lips slightly, and fell half into a dream state as he lay in the soothing warmth of the water and suds.

*** 

“Noel,” said Richard, “what the fuck are you doing with that cabbage?”  
He wasn’t sure exactly why the barman had decided to come shopping with him anyway. Surely he had to get home, re-do his makeup, brush out the tangles from that glossy mop of his.   
But no. Apparently Noel was perfectly content to tag along to the shops with his employer, and, it seemed, pose in the reflective glass at the side of the vegetable stalls, with a cabbage.  
“It’s got a face,” Noel said, as if this explained everything.  
“It’s a cabbage,” Richard reminded him, and knew, in that moment, why he had never (would never) have children.  
“Yeah, look, you can see a face in it,” Noel said. “I’m making my face like its face.”  
Richard gave up, and went round the corner to buy some bread, leaving Noel to commune with his cabbage. By the time he’d paid for all the things he thought Aidan and Dean would want or need, Noel was nowhere to be seen, but there hadn’t been a big noisy scuffle, so he’s probably managed not to get thrown out, which was good enough for Richard.   
He reached his home fairly quickly, giving an approving pat to the gate keeping out all the nasty things that could get his boys, and unlocking the door with a smile of satisfaction. The house seemed quiet- almost empty, if he didn’t know better.  
“Dean! Aidan!” he called, and wondered if this was what it felt like to have Labradors to come bounding up to you when you got home, full of love. Then he remembered the incredible sex the three of them had enjoyed, and quickly threw the Labrador idea out of the window, because that was a bit weird for his liking. Besides which, neither a blonde nor a brunette head appeared at the top of the stairs, or around any of the doors, and he suddenly felt a cold chill of fear run up his spine, making him physically tremble. “DEAN?” he bellowed. “AIDAN?”

*** 

“Shit, man, I’m stuck in the fucking trousers!” hissed Aidan, clinging to the edge of the bathtub as Dean desperately tried to haul the tight fitting material away from the Irishman’s legs. “I told you I was getting fucking fat!”  
“No you didn’t, and no you’re not,” Dean said, through gritted teeth.  
“Argh, help me!” Aidan demanded. He really didn’t want Richard to come in and find him stuck in a kinky policeman’s outfit; it would ruin everything.  
“I’m damn well trying!” Dean hissed, and with a particularly vicious tug, Aidan was free. He tripped, teetered on one foot, and landed in the bath tub. Goodness knows why they’d decided to try the stuff on in the bathroom anyway! It was a terrible idea, and now Richard was coming up the stairs, his distinctive heavy footfall making them both panic even more.  
“Guys?” he shouted, and they could tell just how concerned he was.  
“In h-” began Aidan.  
Dean’s hand over his mouth drowned the rest into an incoherent muffled sort of animal noise- which made Richard so much more agitated.  
“Aidan? Dean? Where the fuck are you?” he demanded, almost frantic with worry.  
“Shove it in the cupboard,” whispered Dean, bundling everything back into the box. Fortunately, Richard had a large bathroom cupboard next to his shower, which was rarely used and contained such fascinating things as old sheets and spare towels; both of which, Dean suddenly thought with a wicked grin to himself, they’d be needing soon, if this little scheme of Aidan’s went according to plan.  
“Done,” said Aidan, now released from Dean’s grasp. “Oh shit- the handcuffs. Where are the handcuffs?”  
They’d somehow fallen under the ornate bathtub, so Aidan dived under it as far as he could get, and scrabbled about with one wildly flailing arm until his fingers closed round padded metal and he almost hurled the cuffs at Dean, who was nearer to the cupboard.  
Then, and only then, did they unlock the door and step out with as much casualness as they could manage. Richard whirled round and gaped at them. As soon as he realises he was gaping, he snapped his mouth shut, cleared his throat.  
“Are you two alright?” he asked sharply.  
“Yes,” said Aidan. “Whywouldn’twebealright?”  
“Because normal people breathe between their words,” Richard said. “But anyway. I bought food. You want to come down and I’ll make brunch or something. You must be starving. I take it you got my text, Dean? Yeah? Good. So, what does anyone want for brunch then. I nearly bought the whole shop, I can tell you that! And Noel was strangely preoccupied with a cabbage. Yeah, he came with me, then got attached to the cabbage and disappeared. Never can tell with people like Noel. Come to that, I don’t think there are any people like Noel…”

*** 

There was a loud noise as he entered the room, and although he kept his eyes on the ground and was determined not to initiate eye contact with anyone, he could still sense that people were looking at him, and if not actually talking about him and saying negative, jeering things, then at least thinking them. It hurt, but he’d come to expect it.  
“Benedict!” came a voice, a voice which tried to be jolly and pretended to ignore all the shit that had spread round the Sixth Form. It had been a while since that disastrous party at Andrew’s house, and he would have expected his classmates not to remember much about it anyway, because they all seemed completely out of it. Apparently, though, they’d all got to hear about his lack of prowess, his awkwardness, his reluctance, his complete lack of normality when it came to all things sexual- goodness, he couldn’t even say the word, couldn’t think it without feeling squirmy and awkward about himself. He wasn’t a sexual creature, for goodness sake. He was gangly and ginger and awkward and so uncompromisingly Benedict and it was all awful. “Are you ok, man? Looking for Andrew?”  
Laughter from the corner of the common room. Probably directed at him.  
“No,” he said.  
“You’re not ok?”  
“I’m not looking for Andrew.”  
“Oh. Er. Ok, then.”  
Conversation ended there, but the laughing didn’t. It built and built, rising into a crescendo, a cacophony of cackling.  
Benedict could feel the tears burning the back of his eyes. He began to hate Andrew. He’d never hated anyone other than himself before.  
“Benedict? BEN? Baby?”  
Benedict’s eyes flew open. The water had gone slightly cold, his skin was puckered from so long lying there, and Tom was in the doorway.  
“I found more croissants in your cupboard,” he said. “Are you ok?”  
“Nothing a croissant won’t fix,” said Benedict.  
“Was it Andrew?” asked Tom softly.  
“Yeah. But like I said, nothing a croissant won’t fix,” smiled the barman, reaching for his towel while trying to hide his torso from Tom’s eyes. Tom tactfully turned away.  
“Or two croissants?” he said teasingly. “Or three? Nicely warmed? You could eat them off my naked body,” he mused.  
Benedict nearly fell over his towel at that.  
“Oh my!” he said. “That- that would definitely help.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom, Ben, and mis-use of chocolate syrup. Look out for cameos by Robert Pattinson, Jack Whitehall, and the introduction of a certain James McAvoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters are based on real actors and I own no one!

Benedict hadn’t expected, when he emerged from his bedroom freshly washed and smelling beautifully fragrant, to find Tom busily warming an entire plate of croissants. He’d expected that to happen later on- he was meant to be sleeping now!  
“Bathroom’s free,” he said. “I’m off to bed for a bit.”  
“Ok,” said Tom with a smile. “Well, these can always be reheated, I suppose. I guess you’ve had enough croissants for one day anyway.” He hid his disappointment well, but Benedict noticed at once, and backtracked a little. Using Tom’s bare body as a croissant platter was rather tempting, and he could always sleep afterwards. Maybe Richard would let him stay off work that evening- Noel was just as good at bartending as he was.  
“Uh- no,” he said, “that is, you can always come with me? To bed, I mean. Oh dear- I mean, if you’d like to- not have sex- well no, I hope you do want to have sex, somewhen, but maybe not now- because- and well- croissants…” he ended, floundering. Tom’s face was bright and his grin wide, and Benedict smiled tentatively, hoping he could somehow communicate with Tom without all this mangling of the English language that seemed to occur every time he tried to speak.  
“You run along back to bed,” the fair haired man said, with a wink, “and Tom and his plate of deliciously warm butter croissants will be with you in a moment. Go on. Off you trot.”  
So he did.

*** 

“How about this afternoon?” whispered Aidan, spreading butter generously across a freshly heated crumpet. Richard, across the other side of his spacious kitchen, was busy making coffee and didn’t hear.  
“It’s practically afternoon already,” pointed out Dean. “Pass us the jam, Aid.”  
“Even better!” Aidan replied joyfully, as he obligingly passed the jam. “The sooner the better, if you ask me.”  
“I didn’t,” said Dean. “Aidan, do you ever wonder if you think with your dick too much?”  
“No,” said Aidan, “and anyway, it usually makes such good decisions. Why would I?”  
“Coffee’s done,” Richard piped up, looking across to catch a wide eyed, overly innocent expression plastered across Aidan’s face, and an amused one decorating Dean’s. “Oh, what are you up to?” he asked, a slow smile making an appearance as Aidan started worrying his lip between perfect white teeth, in a self-aware display of sexuality, eyes lowered, lashes flickering.  
“Nothing, Richard,” Aidan almost purred. “Would you like us to be?”  
“I rather think I would,” said Richard, and then wrinkled his nose. “But it might have to wait. I want to get Noel and Benedict over to the station to give statements sometime today, and there’s an absolute fuck tonne of paperwork I need to get through, I have to speak to the suppliers about changing the spirits we serve, and there’s a couple of bulbs that need replacing, and there was a stroppy little councillor making a fuss about the club being a corruptive influence so I’ve got to nip that in the bud of we’ll be getting bad press and you know how much damage that will do, we’ve got such prestigious clientele…” He sighed, sipped his coffee, sank down onto the settee with the twinge in his back reminding him that he wasn’t as young as he used to be, despite the efforts he put in at the gym. Life wasn’t fair, but he had a lot to be grateful for- like these two, right here.  
“It can wait,” said Aidan, reassuringly.  
“Oh! So you were planning something?” Richard said immediately.  
“No,” Aidan backtracked. “But if we were…it could wait. Til you’ve done all the stuff you need to do. So you can focus- on the thing… which we may or may not be planning.”  
“Shut up, you,” laughed Dean, and just to make sure he did, he sealed his own lips over the rambling Irishman’s. Yes, thought Richard, he had so very much to be thankful for.

***  
Benedict stretched out on his bed, cotton soft against his skin. He wore a soft grey t shirt, and a pair of tracksuit bottoms- old, but nonetheless pristine, because he only really used them to sleep in or to wander about the house. He wasn’t really much of a one for sports; it left him vulnerable to the comparisons of and with other men. Andrew’s words had left their scars deep on his skin and etched into his psyche, and there was no way he was going to put himself willingly in a position for more. Lying half on his side, he looked at the clock on the bedside table, and noted that it said twenty to twelve. Goodness, was it really already so late? He was sure he had things he ought to be doing.  
Then, as he heard Tom’s footfall approaching the door, he shifted onto his back, and noticed a spider making its leisurely way across the ceiling. He hoped it wouldn’t fall on him. He certainly hoped he wouldn’t swallow the thing.  
As Tom’s slim, tapered-at-the-waist form loomed elegantly over him, Benedict’s mind involuntarily spluttered out all thoughts of afternoons and spiders, because Tom was almost naked, bare flesh only obscured by a small and nicely fitted pair of pants. And he had that damn plate of croissants too, and he was arranging himself alongside Benedict on the double bed, and Benedict vaguely managed to think that he’d never been so glad for upgrading to a double bed in his life. He’d never expected anyone to be there to share it with him, but it was nice to be able to sprawl out like a starfish.  
Focus, Ben, he reminded himself. Now is not the time for starfish. He sent the starfish off with the spider, and half sat up, propped on his elbow. He was more or less at eye level with his boyfriend now, and he didn’t flinch.  
“Is this ok?” asked Tom.  
“More than ok,” came the reply, and Ben sort of scooted inelegantly closer to his beloved, and placed a kiss more like a seal of trust than anything sexual upon those perfect pink lips. There was a loose golden curl hanging coquettishly down over one beautiful eye whose sparkling blue held all the promise of a midsummer’s day, and Benedict brushed it softly aside. “This is the most content I think I have ever been.”  
Tom almost welled up, had to forcefully remind himself not to cry, not to ruin this moment with tears that could so easily be misunderstood.  
“That’s good,” he whispered, bumping his forehead ever so gently against Benedict’s. “That’s really,” kiss “marvellously” kiss “spectacularly good.”  
“Like you,” smiled Benedict.  
“Says you,” Tom giggled softly. “Can I- carry on? Can I introduce the croissants to the party now?”  
“Yes,” said Benedict, “please do!” He reached for the plate on the bedside table, and picked up the warm pastries in one large, elegant hand. “Or maybe I ought to? You stay there.”  
Tom wriggled his toes with anticipation, and Benedict noted with delight that it mirrored his pleasured actions in the bath tub. Little things meant the most to a man like Benedict.  
“Croissants are surprisingly ticklish,” was Tom’s verdict, when Benedict placed them with a semi-embarrassed little laugh across that long, lean torso. “I think it’s the flaky pastry that does it. You know what might help?”  
Benedict grinned an impish grin, suddenly thinking of something delightfully mischievous.  
“Melted chocolate,” he said, at the same time Tom announced “chocolate sauce. The really sticky stuff. Gooey. Like you have on sundaes. The ice cream, not the day. Oh, I say!”  
This last exclamation came as he realised what Benedict had said.  
“There’s some in the kitchen,” said Benedict. “I put it on pancakes. Only I keep forgetting to make pancakes. So maybe I’ll just keep it for putting on you instead.”  
“What a glorious idea,” Tom said, approvingly, and watched with a delighted smile as Benedict’s arse- and the rest of that lovely body- sashayed out of the bedroom. He returned shortly with a small squeezy bottle of dark chocolate syrup, which he proceeded to drizzle cautiously onto the palm of his own hand to make sure it was a) still edible, rather than all gunky and b) not freezing cold to the touch. It was neither, but he still hesitated over Tom’s faintly rising and falling chest.  
“I haven’t done this before,” he admitted softly.  
“Neither,” Tom assured him, “have I. And that’s a good thing, because I want to get to know you through the things we do.” He was so sincere that Benedict just had to stare at him for a bit, and take in the fact he actually wanted Ben, of all people, all over again. “Come on, gorgeous!” Tom announced. “Drizzle me.”  
With a boyish giggle, Benedict did just that. He squeezed the stuff liberally all over the croissants in a wild, wobbly zigzag motion, effectively sticking them to Tom’s skin, and when there wasn’t much un-chocolated skin left, he merrily tossed the bottle to the floor and lowered his head to Tom’s chest, took a steadying breath, then began to lick. He came across a lot more confident than he felt.  
“Oh! Oh, you have no idea how good that feels!” Tom’s voice came breathily, uncertain of the new sensation but very much enthused about Benedict’s warm tongue. “Mmm, yes. Oh! Yes.”  
“You taste ridiculously sweet,” observed Ben. He raised his head to look into Tom’s eyes, but found they’d fallen shut with bliss. Benedict’s eyebrow quirked, and he began lapping gently at one chocolatey nipple. Tom sucked in a sharp breath and his eyes flew open, wide and shocked and overwhelmed. “Fuuuuuu…ck,” he managed.  
“Good?” enquired Benedict, blowing softly on the licked spot.  
“It certain-ly is,” managed Tom, his voice cracking. “Carry on, Ben. This is- I just can’t.”  
Benedict’s smile was reminiscent of the Cheshire cat, and he got back to it, running his nose gently along a strip of pink skin and nibbling at the edge of a croissant. Flakes of pastry crumbled and dislodged themselves from the croissant. Ben licked them up from Tom’s skin.  
Tom moaned.  
“I’m getting so hard,” he murmured, shifting his hips gently. Benedict ran tentative fingers along the line of Tom’s flank, down the jutting hipbone, dipping below the waistband of the only garment Tom wore. He eased the material down, and gazed appreciatively at the flushed, hard cock beneath. Tom bit his lip as he watched Ben, watching him.  
“You’re big,” was Benedict’s only comment, before he trailed his hand through the syrup and back down to lightly daub Tom’s cock and balls with gooey chocolate. Tom’s chest was heaving, a sign Benedict found very encouraging, so he nibbled at some more pastry and then started to gently, languidly stroke Tom’s erection, sliding the foreskin back and forth over the shining head in a gently teasing motion that he would never have credited himself with possessing. “And so silky. Such beautiful skin. I could do this all day,” he murmured. Tom’s breath hitched. His hand reached for Benedict’s free hand, linking their fingers and rubbing into the skin of his wrist. “You like that then? Hmm?”  
“Yes,” Tom croaked. He tightened his grip on Benedict’s hand, tried to shift his hips up to get more contact with his straining cock. Benedict scooted down again, planted a kiss on the tip. The kiss turned into a lick, which turned into a gentle suck, because Benedict was not what you’d call experienced when it came to anyone else’s penis, but Tom’s encouraging cry out and the way his erection twitched at the touch of Ben’s wet lips gave him courage.  
“So beautiful,” Ben murmured, and took the full head into his mouth, keeping a firm grip on the shaft. The bitter taste of the pre-come beading from the slit made him hesitate for a moment, but there was absolutely no doubt that either of them really, really wanted this to continue, so he took the liquid into his mouth and swirled it around, before dipping down to clean Tom’s heavy balls of the syrup he’d smeared there.  
Then, because there was absolutely no turning back from this point, Benedict moved up his boyfriend’s body, coaxed his mouth open and kissed him, open mouthed and sloppy and intimate, the taste of sweet chocolate and Tom himself mixing on their tongues. Tom’s hands twisted themselves in Benedict’s hair, pulling him as close as he possibly could. The feeling of Ben’s solid, toned chest, still clothed, soft against his own messy torso, was irresistible. One hand moved under the cotton of the thin t-shirt, hinting that it should be taken off, and Benedict pulled away just long enough to oblige.  
“Better,” Tom breathed. “Much better. Oh, look at you, you’re perfect, so perfect, so- uh!” He never got to finish the sentence, instead pulling Ben back down to suck the last remaining taste of himself from the other man’s tongue. His hand rubbed across Ben’s chest, down the abdomen, and cupped him through his tracksuit bottoms, relishing the hot flesh jutting into his hand. “Want me to sort you out?” he offered softly. Benedict shook his head.  
“I’m going to finish you off,” he said, and then he was gripping Tom’s cock again, tight and firm, watching the expression of bliss on Tom’s face as he brought him over the edge. Tom’s come spurted over Benedict’s hand and he eagerly cleaned the fingers when Ben brought them up to his lips, eyes wide and jaw slack. “There. That was the most erotic, intimate thing I’ve ever done,” said Benedict, laying himself down alongside Tom, who looked wrecked. The croissants had all been devoured by this point, and all that was really left was a smeary mess of dark chocolate across his boyfriend’s torso, smudged down as far as his thighs. Tom struggled to sit up. Benedict pushed him back down with a gentle hand on his chest, revelling in the unusual position of being in control. Tom thought he might have to re-evaluate Ben’s sub tendencies, although it was perfectly reasonable that he could be a switch- and, if anything, that excited Tom even more with all its possibilities.  
“You haven’t come,” he protested weakly.  
“You look exhausted,” Ben countered.  
“Never too exhausted to return a favour, especially not one for you, even more especially not if it involves your beautiful cock,” Tom said with a smile. “Come here, you. Let’s get you out of those.” He made short work of the trousers in question and it didn’t take long for Benedict to climax with a quiver and a moan into Tom’s hand, before snuggling into him, tucking his face beneath Tom’s chin, inhaling the sweat gathered between his neck and collarbone.  
“You are perfect,” he whispered, muffled but still decipherable.  
“So are you. That was- amazing.”  
“I- I love you, Tom Hiddleston.”  
Tom’s heart skipped a beat and he tightened his grip around Benedict’s body, knowing full well words such as these did not come forth easily.  
“I love you too,” he replied, “so very, very much.”  
“And I want you to fuck me.”  
Tom’s eyes widened, not sure if he had misheard.  
“I- pardon?” he enquired.  
Ben raised his head and smiled nervously.  
“I want you fuck me,” he repeated. “I want to feel you deep inside me. I want to do what other couples do, Tom- I want us to be a proper couple.”

*** 

It was late afternoon, heading steadily towards evening with every incremental movement of the golden sun in the distance. Soon, it would be a spectacular sunset and then night, and Richard would have to put aside everything else in order to be a professional and oversee things at Armitage’s.  
“Yes, they escaped,” Martin was saying. DI Simm didn’t really want to deal with this shit, but Martin had had quite enough of DI Simm’s shit as well, and so they were stuck in some kind of shit-off. Richard, at his side, watched with a small triumphant smile, because while he, Richard, could perfectly adequately berate the police force, Martin enjoyed it more and his terrier-hanging-onto-a-leg approach was vastly entertaining to watch. Richard had dragged Martin along, in fact, for this very purpose, because he’d had no reply from either Tom’s mobile or, since Ben’s was still lost, his landline, when he called to say were they ready to go to the police station. He’d tried Noel’s phone too of course, but didn’t really expect a reply. No one knew where Noel went during the day, but Richard wouldn’t have been at all surprised to learn he dwelt among a colony of gnomes, in a cavern of gemstones, deep underground.  
Back to the present, though, and Martin was still going! “No fucking thanks to you lot, either,” he was saying accusingly. “I could take this to the European Court of Human Rights!” he added. He probably couldn’t, but that didn’t matter.  
“Well, that’s a relief. I’m sure we are all very glad to hear that,” said Simm. “When are they coming in to give statements?”  
“As soon as they’ve recovered from the ordeal,” said Martin hotly, before Richard had a chance to speak, “when they’re ready, and not a moment before.” He could be, almost, a mother hen when he wanted to be. Simm swallowed down his vicious anger, and bit the end of his biro instead. Martin and Richard left, feeling like indignant parents who have just had a satisfactorily angry venting session at their child’s parents evening. It called for a serious amount of coffee. Richard suggested as much, and they ducked into the nearest coffee house, a small, oak pine affair with small retro lamps and a beamed ceiling. It was relatively empty, with only two tables occupied- two scruffy young men sat at one, and a silver haired elderly man at the other, immersed in GQ magazine- and one barista polishing a spoon behind the counter with an air of boredom.  
“Two Americanos please,” said Richard, and the barista perked up, because Richard was by anyone’s standards a very attractive man, and making coffee, and possibly conversation, was more interesting than polishing that damn spoon any more.  
“I can bring them over, if you’d like to take a seat?” said the barista, hoping Richard would refuse the offer and stay at the bar a little longer.  
“No, I’m good thank you,” said Richard, leaning slightly forwards to read the man’s name tag, “Robert. I’ll take them over when you’re done. Can you get us a toasted teacake while you’re at it, actually? Haven’t had one of those in yonks.”  
Robert beamed.  
“Certainly, sir,” he said, and disappeared out the back to the small kitchen. Another barista, shucking his apron and busily texting one handed, emerged from the toilets, clearly just clocking off.  
“Hey, Pattinson,” he said, not looking at anyone, “where are we chucking the aprons? Are they meant to be laundered or- oh. Sorry, thought you were Pattinson,” he said, seeing Richard.  
“In the kitchen, Jack,” came Robert’s voice, “and I don’t know, just hang it up with the others and I’ll ask before I clock off.”  
“Sweet,” said Jack, and disappeared out the door.  
“He hates me,” said Robert sadly, re-emerging with a toasted teacake. “Rightio, there you go, sir.”  
“Oh, please, call me Richard,” said Richard, as he paid. “Wait, why does he hate you?”  
“Long story,” said Robert wryly. “There’s your change. Let me know if I can get you anything else.”  
Richard took the tray over to Martin’s table, and sat heavily in the chair Martin kicked out for him.

*** 

The Scotsman let out a huge sigh of dejection into his herbal tea.  
“Cheer up, mate, there are jobs,” said his companion. “You’re a graduate in fucking economics, there have to be jobs.”  
“Economics graduates aren’t quite as immediately vital as plumbers,” came the frank reply. “And I’m overqualified to do anything manually useful.”  
“Nah, keep trying!” insisted his friend. He slurped at his tea noisily and scrubbed at his mouth with a napkin. Crumpling it, he batted the Scot playfully round the face with it.  
“Oi, don’t!” said the Scot.  
“Cheer up, James,” insisted his companion. “There’ll be a job for you. You’ve got an economics degree!”  
“So you keep saying,” sighed James. “Doesn’t mean I’ll enjoy crunching numbers in an office though- even if I could find an office that wanted another suited and booted young upstart.”  
“There are other places that want new employees, you know,” suggested the other, after a long silence. “Nice, handsome young man like you and all.”  
Martin gave Richard A Look. Richard raised his eyebrows, turned around, and cleared his throat.  
“Excuse me,” he said, “but I couldn’t help overhearing. I may be able to help.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Matt becomes increasingly unstable, we find out some of his back story. Mentions of sudden death and grief, but nothing too gorey. Meanwhile, Richard seems to have picked up a virus and struggles valiantly on, and there is a cameo by Mat Baynton's HH co-star, a certain Ben Willbond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer that I own none of these people remotely, at all, in the slightest.

“I tried phoning you,” said Richard. Benedict looked at his shoes and grinned a tiny grin which Richard picked up on immediately. “I’m assuming that little smirk means you had a thoroughly enjoyable reason for not answering?”  
Ben met his employer’s eyes and laughed softly.  
“Yeah,” he said. “Sorry. Was it important?”  
“Only minorly,” shrugged Richard. “That bastard of a DI wants statements. He’ll probably use them as bloody mug coasters, but you ought to give one anyway.” He opened the door of the club, held it open for the barman to go in ahead of him. “Oh, and Benedict?”  
“Yes?”   
“Don’t ever apologise for being happy,” Richard said, sincerely. “I have never been more pleased for you two.”  
Benedict beamed and went into the club, flicking on the lightswitch by the door. The room was illuminated with the warm lights they used for actually seeing things, rather than the harsh fluorescent beams they used during shows, and both pairs of eyes fell simultaneously on a very peculiar sight at the bar.  
Behind the counter, which Noel was wiping with apparently no idea that they were even there, stood a broom handle. It was leaning back against the drinks cabinet behind it, partially in shadow from the angle of the wall, but there was no mistaking the object atop the broom handle. Clue: it was not a broom.  
“Oh, what on earth?” Richard groaned. “Noel, did you seriously have to bring the cabbage here?”  
Noel looked up, all smiles.  
“Hullo,” he said.  
“I repeat,” Richard said, passing one hand across his face, “did you seriously have to bring that cabbage to the club?”  
“It’s nice to see you too,” pouted Noel.  
“Noel,” Richard said warningly.  
“Yes, alright, I did,” huffed Noel. “I have an attachment to it.”  
“Won’t it, y’know, go off?” asked Benedict, and Noel looked at him with betrayal and hurt in his eyes.  
“We shall cross that bridge,” he said, “when we come to it.” He pursed his lips. “Did you just come here to be judgemental?”  
“No,” Richard said, “we’re opening in half an hour, actually, and I’ve got to talk to the lads about a new addition.”

*** 

Matt sat hunched across his laptop. The building was falling to pieces, and the breeze crept through all the cracks. Mat was somewhere else in one of the many sprawling rooms, waiting until Matt was ready to go back to the house. This was their hostage building, the place they kept their victims- the place they’d taken Noel and Benedict- but at the moment there was nobody there save for the two men themselves. Matt was on a sofa with a ripped cover, clutching the side of his laptop as if it were his one link with reality, and, though he had started the evening plotting and planning and with a reasonably coherent grip on things, as the seconds and minutes and hours ticked on by, he slipped further and further into memories he tried so hard to repress.  
“Go and tell him, silly!”   
“I can’t. And don’t call me silly.”  
“Oh, Matt, you are being silly. If you don’t tell him, I jolly well will.”  
“I will end you!”   
“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, Matt!”  
“Just because you’ve just discovered that word, it doesn’t excuse the over use of it,” snarked Matt. “I am not being melodramatic. Arthur is- well. A friend. We sit together in Maths, and that’s enough.”  
Sitting together in Maths class was perfectly satisfactory, too. Really. He could sneak little sidewards glances at the way Arthur’s tongue would poke out between thin lips as he struggled with quadratic equations, and when he’d worked one out he’d look up at Matt with the biggest smile and Matt wouldn’t have the heart to tell him he’d worked it out five minutes previously. But it seemed that their friends weren’t content to let it stay that way, as platonic friendship masking a budding and yet secretive sense that the other was truly the most wonderful, beautiful person not only in the small secondary school but also in the whole universe. Matt and Arthur would, though they never expressed as much, have moved the stars for the Arthur and Matt, while all the time believing the other one possessed the magic of those very stars within their soul. One day, on the first school trip of Year Eight, their scheming pals had deliberately annexed Arthur and Matt from the party of pupils trudging round London and left them in Hyde Park, with all the confidence of thirteen year olds that when they were eventually found, they would have declared their love for one another.  
It didn’t quite happen like that, but to be fair, they did start spending weekends together in Arthur’s tree house, talking about star names and gradually edging up to a rather poetic peck on the cheek beneath the sprawling constellations they so fondly associated with the other. Matt’s neighbour Mat Baynton, a couple of years above him at school, gleefully reported back to Matt’s friends whenever they left Matt’s house together, and everything went swimmingly well.  
“Matt? It’s getting dark,” came Mat’s voice from the doorway. The harsh blue light from the laptop screen had given the hunched over figure sore eyes which he only now realised, and tried to blink back to normality. Seeing the disorientation on Matt’s face, Mat sat down and gently rested a hand on his shoulder.  
“Do you want a drink? There’s coffee still in the flask,” he said softly.  
“Fuck your coffee,” Matt muttered weakly, and his eyes sparkled, in the artificial light from his computer, with unshed tears. “We’ll go, let’s get going.”

***

“Well, I don’t have a problem with that,” said Tom.  
“You wouldn’t,” said someone good-naturedly. “You’re Hiddleston.”  
Tom gave a lopsided smile.   
“Well, does it bother you, Willbond?” Richard asked, turning serious blue eyes on the man, a silver fox of a fellow, lithe and tanned and almost ridiculously flexible for a man of his age. He was Ben Willbond, the oldest of Richard’s employees, and regretted nothing, ever, having come from an I.T consultant to a stripper fairly late in life and loving every moment of it.  
“No, of course not,” he said. “No, you’re the boss, you want more dancers, you hire more dancers. We’ll be nice to him, as long as he’s not taking our shifts.”  
“I wouldn’t dream of it. He can go on with some of you,” said Richard, making a note in his phone of something. “I’m seeing him tomorrow, to see if he’s decided to join us.”  
“Great,” said Dean. “Right. I’m on in a sec, so I’ll nip backstage, if that’s ok.” He disappeared, and the rest of the strippers dispersed as well, leaving Tom sitting by the bar, sipping a cocktail of some sort, deep in thought. Noel popped up, all smiles, having persuaded Richard to let him keep the cabbage by him all night.  
“You look thoughtful,” he said.  
“I am,” replied Tom.  
“Ben?” asked Noel.  
“Of course,” said Tom. “He’s the most precious thing to me, Noel.”  
“I know,” beamed Noel, and Tom knew then that everything was just fine.

***   
Following an uneventful night, Richard drove Aidan and Dean back to the house and left them sleeping in the middle of his king sized bed while he went downstairs to sit in the office and try and work out what the hell had happened with the pricing for the spirits, because the figures weren’t making any sense. He fell asleep eventually with his head resting gently against the wooden bookcase beside his desk, waking to the soft kisses of daylight on his cheek, and a dull throbbing in his temples.  
“Ah- fuck,” he rasped, blinking awake. The figures within the folder on his desk were still just as incomprehensible as the night before, and his eyes hurt and his throat hurt and he was still wearing the clothes he’d worn the night before as well. His shirt clung to his skin and his hair was ruffled, and the smart suit trousers he’d only just had laundered were rumpled beyond all salvation without an iron. Dragging himself wearily from the chair, he stretched and winced as the muscles of his back complained at the motion. He made himself a pot of tea and forced his weary legs to take him up the staircase, heading straight for the master bedroom. There, he was greeted by a sight fit to wake any sleepy man; Aidan, sprawled on his back, practically spread-eagled in the midst of a very rumpled bed, with a pillow placed considerately under his hips as Dean thrust deeply inside him. Aidan’s fist was balled up between his teeth and the sweat running down his face and neck betrayed the fact Dean had been keeping him on edge for presumably quite some time. He was wrecked. Richard sagged loosely against the doorframe and felt the blood in his ears pound faster.  
Aidan looked over and caught his eye, wrenched his hand free from between those perfect teeth and uttered the most desperate, guttural moan.  
“Uuuuhhh. De- Dean, he’s there. Let me come,” croaked Aidan.  
Dean glanced behind him, barely altering the punishing pace of his body rocking in and out of Aidan’s, and a smirk crossed his flushed face.  
“Come on then, Aidan,” he muttered, and leant down to kiss the Irishman. “Come for me. Good boy.” With a desperate cry that rent the air, Aidan came, and rolled on his side, pushing Dean off him and panting, eyes closed and jaw slack, into Richard’s pillows. Dean propped himself up on one elbow and ran a hand along Aidan’s body, caressing his hip, smiling a blissful smile up at Richard, who now stood beside the bed. “We didn’t want to disturb you,” he explained. “And Aidan’s a noisy little shit in bed. So I made him wait.” He sat up, seeing the look of pain that suddenly flickered across the Englishman’s face. “Oh, fuck, Richard, are you ill?”  
“Just a bit rough,” admitted Richard, his voice hoarse. “Nothing a few paracetamol won’t sort out.”  
Aidan rolled over to look at him with wide, concerned eyes.  
“You are ill,” he said, worried. “Oh, shit, Richard- come here, sit down. What can we get you?” He guided the older man onto the bed and nestled him between Dean and himself. Dean rested the back of his hand on Richard’s forehead, and knew instantly that it was far too hot to be normal.  
“Nothing,” croaked Richard. “I’ll shower, have some tablets, and get on with what needs doing. I’m meeting the new guy today, I can’t be unprofessional.”  
“Is he coming here?” asked Dean. “You can’t go out, Richard. And what if it’s contagious? The whole club could come down with it.”  
Richard hated to admit that Dean had a valid point.  
“Could you bring my phone up?” he asked. “I left it on the desk in my office. I’ll close Armitage’s for a couple of nights. The new guy can come here, I’ll give him directions. I’m seeing him at 11.30, so make yourselves scarce, don’t want him thinking this isn’t a professional set-up.”  
Aidan mock saluted.  
“Sir, yes sir,” he said, and disappeared down the staircase. He found Richard’s phone easily enough, and glanced idly at the numbers in the folder beside it. Maths had been his strongest subject at school, and it didn’t take much to work out that someone, somewhere, was messing about with the books of the club. “You know, those figures for the club,” he said, re-entering the bedroom, “make me very suspicious.”  
“They don’t do much for me either,” muttered Richard. “Thanks, Aid. Yeah. I don’t know what’s going on with them.”  
“You’re being swindled,” said Aidan simply. “The supplier is fucking you over. Who deals with the accounts usually? Along with you, I mean?”  
“Shush, leave him be,” Dean said, nudging Aidan. “You can sort it later. When he’s better.”

*** 

Matt sat in bed and stared out of the window. After a while, his vision began to swim and he found himself staring at the dust particles on the glass of the window pane rather than the view beyond. The face that stared bleakly back at him looked completely foreign, an unknown visage.  
“What’s happened? What’s wrong?” He was running through the park, the sun bright and his shoe laces undone, and a sense of dread rising within him. Arthur was meeting him by the ice cream stall and he was late, and there was a crowd gathered in the street that made him skittish. He pushed his way through, recognising the bright scarlet paint of Arthur’s bike, his pride and joy, before he saw the equally bright red stain on the pavement, the stain whose trail led to a face so beloved that its contorted, battered state was like a wrench to Matt’s madly beating heart.  
“No,” he said, stupidly. “No, no, Arthur- no!”  
“Come away!” said a plummy sounding adult, and reached for him. The hand closed around the fabric of his t shirt and he recoiled, furious.  
“Get the fuck off me, you absolute scum!” he screamed. It was the first time Matt had sworn. He was thirteen and two days. Arthur had yet to give him his birthday present. And now, Arthur would never give him anything again. Arthur was, he knew in that awful instant, gone.   
From that day, it seemed that the thing worth most to him became the only thing in life he wanted, and death had that one thing. Death had taken his happiness and his companionship, and he saw no reason why anyone else had more of a right to that than he did.  
That night, Matt changed, aged, hardened his heart, and became the man people knew to fear and hate.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James McAvoy considers a drastic career change of two sorts, Noel gets a date with an unlikely ally and is weird, and Aidan is an enthusiastic nurse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothin', y'all. Just tryin' to have some fun.

James approached the house with trepidation. The directions given to him by Mr Armitage were very straightforward, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to be meeting a guy who ran a strip club in a house as imposing as this. The exterior fairly bristled with security cameras and locks and there were spikes along one of the walls; woe betide any opportunistic criminal who made an attempt on this Alcatraz. He stopped outside the huge iron gates and reached tentatively for the intercom, then withdrew his hand.  
“What am I doing here?” he asked himself, under his breath. “No, really. James. What the hell are you doing with yourself?”  
He pulled out his phone and rang his prospective employer’s number.  
“Hullo?” came a cheery Irish voice from the other end. This was odd. Last time James had spoken to Richard Armitage, he’d been a deep-voiced Northerner.  
“Er- hullo,” said James.  
“Pass it here, Aid,” croaked someone, and then a slightly nasal version of the familiar baritone filled his ear. “Hello, Mr McAvoy. Sorry. Colleague of mine got the phone. Are you alright?”  
“I think I’m here,” said James, and poked the button in front of him. It crackled and buzzed.  
“Right you are,” said the other man, “I’ll buzz you in. Come straight up, Aidan will meet you at the door.”

*** 

It was an unpleasant half hour that Benedict spent with Noel and the predictably odious DI Simm in the police station. The detective inspector was brash, bullying and sardonic beyond all belief, and his sergeant cringed on behalf of all civilised representatives of the force. Noel was increasingly riled, and had a word with the sergeant on the way out.  
“What was all that about?” asked Benedict, as they rounded the corner and went to meet Tom for lunch. The sun was out and the birds were chirping and he had foregone a jacket that morning; he was feeling pretty damn chipper. “What did you say to the sergeant?”  
“Oh, nothing,” Noel said nonchalantly. “But that cunt of a DI might find himself sitting on these little babies for the next two weeks.” He held out a tiny plastic box for Benedict to see.  
Benedict read the label. “50 mini drawing pins. I-Noel!”  
“Well, he’s a shit,” said Noel sensibly. “Julian hates his guts.”  
“Woah, what- who?” asked Ben.  
“Sergeant Barratt,” said Noel casually, “but I can hardly be expected to call him that when we have dinner together, can I? Maybe later,” he said mischievously, and with a wink, ducked neatly into the door of Tennant’s Lounge. Benedict trotted inside behind him, mouth open.  
“You’re having dinner with him?” he asked.  
“With whom?” enquired Tom, rising to kiss Benedict chastely on the lips. “Hello, sweetheart. Are you alright?”  
“Mm-hmm,” said Noel. “Tomorrow night. Richard’s closed the club for two nights, he’s come down with some ghastly shit of a virus. Hi, Tom.”  
“The sergeant,” Benedict said, picking up the menu. “Hello Tom. DI Simm’s sidekick- Noel’s asked him out!”  
“Oh, jolly good on you,” beamed Tom. “That’s great news.”  
David himself swanned over, not to take their order but just to sort of beam and chatter and drape himself over Benedict’s shoulder, complimenting him on his shirt and casting aspersions about how long the nice weather would really last.  
“Noel’s celebrating,” Tom told him, having exhausted the weather as a conversational topic. “He’s got a date tomorrow, with one of the local police force.”  
David was overjoyed, and actually jumped three times and clapped twice.  
“That’s marvellous,” he declared. “Free drinks for the lot of you.” And he went off to get them.  
“I’ll give you a hand,” said Noel, hopping up. Following David out to the kitchen, he cornered the Scotsman up against the fridge.  
“Oh!” David, finding himself pinned to the fridge, was momentarily alarmed. “Um…”  
“Don’t mention it to Richard yet, ok?” Noel said, uncharacteristically serious. “I don’t know how well he’s going to react to me seeing a policeman. Bit of a sore point. And- you know, it might come to nothing. I just- don’t say anything to him yet. And if you tell Martin-”  
“Why would I tell Martin?” asked David, innocently.  
“Because you tell Martin everything,” Noel said with an eye-roll. “However, as a kind of compensation, there is a little bet going which you might be interested in…”

*** 

“It’s not something I’ve ever done before,” admitted James, “in fact, not something I’d even considered.”  
“Well, no pressure,” said Richard. “But the offer is there, should you decide you want it.” He reached for the glass of water at his elbow once more. Dean kept surreptitiously appearing to re-fill it, because the rate Richard was downing the stuff seemed downright unhealthy but it had to be doing some good, flushing out toxins and all that stuff. He briefly blinked his eyes and held them shut for a second, willing the pounding in his head to just go away. When he opened his eyes again, James was looking at him, curiously and slightly awkwardly.  
“Look, I get the feeling this isn’t a good time, Mr Armitage,” he said, half rising from his chair. “You don’t seem so well.”  
“No, listen,” said Richard, struggling to rise from his own seat. “I’ll get a couple of the lads to talk to you. You haven’t met them properly, it’s understandable you don’t want to make a blind decision, you’ll be with them a lot. Dean, phone a few of them, would you? Get them to go for a pint or something with James?”  
“Sure,” said Dean with a smile, partly because this way they could get James out the way, and Richard back to bed. He was starting to wheeze, and Aidan, lurking out of sight in the hallway, was driving himself mad, fretting about him. “How about I try Tom?”  
“Try whoever you want,” said Richard, already halfway up the stairs by this point.  
James stood awkwardly inspecting his fingernails while Dean made the call, turning at one point to see Aidan peeping round the door at him with big, curious brown eyes. Upon seeing James looking back at him, he scampered up the stairs after the Englishman.  
“That’s cool,” said Dean. James looked back at him. “No, no problem. I’ll bring him over. No, it’s fine. See you in ten. Thanks, Tom.” He hung up. “Care to have lunch with some prospective colleagues?” he asked, smiling.  
“Yes, I suppose so,” smiled James, still not quite sure of himself.  
“Just lunch,” Dean assured him. “Don’t look so worried. We’ll all be off-duty, and clothed and everything.”

***  
At the sound of the door opening, all three heads at the table in the corner turned in unison, like some well-rehearsed move in a music video.  
At first, James looked straight at them, blue eyes bright with an unbidden defensiveness, and ran a hand self consciously through his hair, wondering if it was obvious that he wasn’t used to putting hair gel in it. They all looked so dapper, so unbelievably handsome, it was hard to picture himself, mentally, among such men.  
“There they are,” said one of them, and Dean grinned, led the way up to their table with such ease that James felt sure his own discomfort was palpable. This could either go really well or really not well, and he had a horrible feeling he should just run screaming from the building and hide in a gutter with the jobs pages from the Guardian, trying to wrangle a place for himself in life with that wretched fucking economics degree that had seemed such a good idea at the time.  
“These are some of the guys,” Dean told him. “They’re the nicest people you could hope to meet.”  
You would think that, James thought bitterly. You are one of them.

***

Tom set down his knife and fork and turned on his megawatt “greeting strangers” smile. Ben, sitting close beside him, pushed a stray curl back from his face and took a deep breath. Charming the birds out of the trees came naturally to Tom, and while Benedict was working on it, but he wasn’t terribly sure of himself.  
“Hey lads,” Dean greeted them with a mock salute. “Right, introductions. This,” he gestured expansively at James, “is James McAvoy. He’s the guy who may be joining us.”  
“If we’re nice,” chirped Noel.  
“Exactly,” agreed Dean. “Right. The one with the mop top and the guyliner is Noel. He usually keeps his kit on; he’s bar staff, as is Benedict,” he gestured to Ben, who said “hello” and hoped he wouldn’t be expected to say more. “This is Tom. He takes his clothes off for a living.”  
“Good afternoon,” said Tom. “Come and join us. Noel, budge up. Deano, you staying?”  
“I’ll have a drink, and then I’ll bugger off,” Dean said apologetically. “Richard’s sick,” he added in a low voice.  
“Man flu?” asked Noel, handing James the menu.  
“Man flu extra strength,” said Dean, pulling a face. “You know Richard, he doesn’t complain. He’s really struggling. I’d rather not stay too long.”  
“Plus you might be contagious,” said Noel unhelpfully.  
“Oh, shut it, I’m fine,” said Dean, and swatted the other man. Within ten minutes, he was gone, heading off on his mission of mercy to save Richard from Aidan’s puppyishly overwhelming concern.

*** 

“You know, whoever does the accounts needs roasting over a spit,” said Aidan, poring over the laptop and wondering how on earth Richard had managed to run a business for so long.  
“On a spit,” croaked Richard from under several pillows and blankets.  
“What?”  
“On a spit. Over a fire. You don’t roast someone over a spit,” Richard corrected him.  
“You’re meant to be ill, shush up,” Aidan reprimanded him with a half smile. Approximately half a minute passed before he had to speak again. “Richard, who is your finance guy?”  
The only reply came in the form of a gentle snore. Aidan’s face lit up, and he carefully placed the laptop and assorted files on the table. He padded softly on bare feet across to the bed, peeled back the covers just enough to slip his lanky frame in alongside Richard’s peacefully sleeping form. He then tucked his chin against Richard’s shoulder, and waited for sleep to claim him too. He didn’t have to wait long; before Dean was home, both dark haired men were sleeping like puppies in a basket.  
*** 

“So you’ll think about it?” said Tom, at the same time Noel said “so we didn’t freak you the fuck out” and Benedict said nothing at all.  
“Well- yeah,” said James, with a lightness of heart that wasn’t solely down to the alcohol in his system. “Yes, I certainly will.”  
“Where are you off to now? Can I call a taxi or something?” offered Tom.  
Ben scrunched up his napkin in one balled hand, and stuffed it into his trouser pocket, where he twisted long fingers agitatedly through the thin paper until it ripped and tore into a shredded mess. His shoulders were tense for reasons he couldn’t fathom- beyond, that is, the obvious and predictable discomfort around new people- and he wanted to get away. Most of all, he wanted to take Tom with him.  
“Oh- no, nothing so fancy,” laughed James. “I’ll walk. I’m only going back to my flat anyway, it isn’t far.”  
“Well,” said Noel. James looked at him, a friendly half smile opening up his face. The sentence never got any further, James’ heart sank and his face grew warm with embarrassment, and Tom had to save the situation from becoming terribly awkward, jumping in.  
“It’s been nice to meet you.”  
“Yes,” said James, doubtfully. “And you.”  
He was out the door before anyone could say goodbye, or expect him to do the same. A dark haired man, to whom nobody had paid much attention but who had been paying intense but surreptitious attention to them, gracefully stood and followed him without seeming to follow, a mobile phone held discreetly in his sleeve.  
Tom turned to Noel the moment the door clicked shut behind him, a frown creasing his normally open features.  
“You shouldn’t be like that to him,” he said flatly. “Richard’s running a business, there’s no call for an attitude like that.”  
“Whoa, hold up a sec,” protested Noel. “What exactly am I supposed to have done, what attitude exactly are we talking about? And how do you suggest I go about canvassing for Richard’s employees?” The sarcasm in his tone was painfully obvious, and Benedict winced for both his new best friend and the love of his life. The napkin in his pocket took another tearing.  
“It’s obvious he’s uncomfortable, anyone would be,” Tom said sharply. “I know you’re like that normally, and it’s fine because we’re used to it, but did you have to be…”  
“Well?”  
“Quite so-”  
“What, Tom?”  
“You,” Tom said, almost despairingly.  
“Well.” Noel’s jaw was tensed. “That was both uncalled for, and fucking unfriendly as fuck. Well done you.” He stalked from the building without a glance behind him, and Benedict stared at the floor, his fingers tangled in a mess of white paper. It would be merry hell to get the bits out of his trousers, especially if he only remembered they were there after they’d been through the washing machine.  
“What just happened?” demanded David, who had barely reined in his curiosity until that moment, when it just proved simply too much. Neither Tom nor Benedict answered him. David wasn’t the kind of man who accepts being ignored. “I said, what just happened?” he repeated.  
“I don’t care if it started as an informal lunch,” said Tom quietly. “The moment Dean brought that McAvoy chap along, it turned to business rather than pleasure. I would have expected more professionalism from Noel. I did expect it.”  
“I just don’t think-”  
“James left here feeling confused and alienated,” Tom said. “In what world is that ok?”

*** 

James hadn’t felt, in actual fact, quite as bad as Tom was agonising over. Tom was a sweetheart, a gentleman, and imbued with a deep sense of propriety, while James had grown up on an uncompromising council estate in Scotland and could, when the occasion demanded it, cease all giving of fucks.  
He did, however, question whether this was really the right career move or not. On the one hand, it was good money- exceptionally good money, plus tips, Richard had assured him- and he liked the sense of newness and adventure. He hadn’t done something this adventurous before- skydiving in Macedonia wasn’t quite in the same category- and the prospect of bursting through the circle of stuffed shirts and managerial ponces who had sprouted with alarming rapidity along the path he travelled… well, that was reward enough in itself.  
On the other hand… On the other hand, stripping. It was daunting, if he allowed himself to think about it too much. But then, what counted as too much, as opposed to just the right amount of consideration any sensible person would give to throwing away the life skills they’d spent three years honing in pursuit of a (supposedly) extremely useful and employable Economics degree, in favour of getting up on a stage and undressing with a bunch of other men? And- well, if the soft spoken, fair haired one was anything to go by, these guys were really something else. He couldn’t possibly measure up! Then again, the one with the scary hair and the scarier eyeliner- which wasn’t even the oddest aspect of the man- was enough to put anyone off a career change. James was especially unnerved by the way his conversation seemed always to diverge towards cabbages.  
He was just about to turn the corner at the end of the street and return to his flat, to continue his ponderings of whether or not this was a really fucking bad idea or a really fucking good idea (because, truth be told, he felt as if there really was no middle ground), when the man stepped out of what seemed like thin air, and James found himself nose to chest with him.  
“I’d like a word with you,” said the stranger. “James, isn’t it?”  
“I- what?” said James.  
“Care for a drink?” said the stranger. James hesitated. He’d only just had a drink with his lunch. “No is not an option,” said the stranger. “I have a sniper in that window and his eye isn’t the only thing that’s trained on you.”  
It may have been a bluff. James hoped it was. He followed the man anyway.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ben angsts over his two favourite people falling out, Martin is gettin' real tired of their shit, and things an early morning take a turn for the dramatic in the Armitage household.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer still stands that all these characters are based on real live people, I make no claim of ownership, and if anyone ever tells them this exists, I am truly sorry.

“Go and make things up to Noel!”  
“Excuse me?”  
“You heard me. Don’t be a tit, there’s no need for you two to fall out.”  
“That’s none of your business!”  
“It really is,” said Martin, sounding aggrieved. “Think of the impact it will have,” he paused before delivering the final blow, “on Benedict.”  
Tom sucked in a sharp breath.  
“Look, I’m very sorry, but I will hang up on you if all you’re going to do is wind me up,” he said. He bit unusually viciously into an apple, and pretended it was Noel’s head. “Are you- do you have anything useful to say, Martin?”  
“That seems pretty bloody useful to me, you little shit!” exploded Martin.  
“Hanging up,” said Tom.  
“No, Tom, don’t be daft! Make it up to him.”  
“Surely you mean with him? I am not doing all the making up!”  
“Tom, what are you, five?” Martin sounded disgusted. “You’re supposed to be that suave, sophisticated, nice English gentleman. Go. And. Make. Up. With. Noel.”  
“The kettle has boiled. I’ve got to go,” said Tom, and that was the end of that. Martin glared at the phone in his hand, then wheeled round and glared at David.  
“That was absolutely useless!” he despaired. “The man’s behaving more like a child than Benedict when someone says the S word.”  
“S word?” asked David.  
“SEX!” screamed Martin. “Are we done here? I need to go on a fucking pub crawl. They’re driving me insane with their bickering.”  
*** 

The last droplets of wine slipped smoothly down Matt’s throat and he set the glass down on the table-top with a clink of finality.  
“And that is why,” he said smoothly, “it is in everyone’s best interests if you work for me.” He licked his lips, swiping away the last droplets of red liquid hanging there with a strangely hypnotic tongue flick. “You see?”  
James gazed at him, more or less dumbstruck by the events of the past hour and a half, the entirety of which he had spent sitting in this classy looking little wine bar, listening to the most extreme and bizarre outpourings of accusation and ire from a man he’d only just met, seemingly by accident (although, of course, it wasn’t. One of Matt’s unfortunate employees had given him the heads up the moment James left Tennant’s, and Mat had been screeched at to “get in the fucking car and fucking drive me you fuck”, and the rest, as they say, is history). He glanced at the clock on the wall and pinched the bridge of his nose.  
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You and Mr Armitage, you had a falling out? And-”  
“He double crossed me and did me out of business,” said Matt. It didn’t need to be a particularly detailed lie, because if this McAvoy chap found out it wasn’t true, by that point he’d already have him where he wanted him. All the same, maybe Baynton was right about using subtler methods than outright terror, which, if used over a prolonged period, would get him noticed by the wrong sort of people- those who might stop him, unlikely as that was. “He stole my employees, used them, marred my reputation and is a bloody sex pest into the bargain. You work for me and I’ll keep an eye out for you; you work for him, and you’re on your own.”  
“I had no idea,” said James weakly. A job based around economics seemed like such a good idea now, but it was rather too late for that. “What is it you want me to do exactly, Mr Smith?”

*** 

Richard woke up at some indeterminate hour, and wondered if Aidan had pranked him, since it felt like someone had shoved a small tree down his oesophagus. Surely, though, even Aidan wouldn’t do anything mean?  
“Aidan?” he rasped. “Dean?”  
There was a heavy, warm weight on his left side, and something he now recognised as Aidan’s wild curls tickling beneath his chin.  
“Did you want something?” asked Dean, his face appearing round the door. “Water? Pills? A box set?”  
“How long’s Aidan been in here?”  
“Ever since I got home,” said Dean. “It’s nearly eight o’clock, Richard. You’ve been out cold for hours.”  
“I don’t feel cold,” griped Richard. “At least, not till I take all these ruddy layers off. Then I’m fucking freezing.” He dragged himself into a sitting position, gently removing the Irishman from his chest and laying him down alongside him. “Have there been any calls? How’d things with James go?”  
“Ah,” said Dean, sitting down on Richard’s other side. “Not so great, ‘m afraid. Well, he seemed nice, he got on great with Tom- but apparently there was a bit of a verbal bust up with Noel after he left. Tom and Noel are behaving like screeching queens, and Benedict is at a complete loss as to what to do.”  
“Shit,” was Richard’s response, and he scrunched his eyes tight shut. “Pass me my phone, Dean. I’ll try and sort this out.”  
“I’m dying,” came a small voice from beneath the duvet.  
“No you’re not,” said Dean sensibly. He clambered round to Aidan’s side, peeled back the covers, and smiled affectionately as the Irishman curled violently in on himself like an especially obstinate kitten, mumbling to himself. “Come here, you.” He managed to unfurl Aidan long enough to place one cool palm against his forehead, smoothing away rumpled curls. “Dammit, Aidan, you’re going the same way as Richard! Why would you curl up with a diseased person anyway?” His annoyance wasn’t genuine, and Aidan, opening one eye to make sure of this, was reassured enough to carry on feeling thoroughly sorry for himself.  
“Because I love him,” he mumbled, mushing his face into the pillow, “and I love you too, Dean.”  
And- well- that was unexpected, because love wasn’t really something any of them had thought so much about, let alone voiced. Their strange, happy little relationship wandered along the braided lines of affection, snarky comments, and mind blowing sex, and somehow Aidan had just, potentially, changed all of that in one woozy, burbled sentence.  
“Oh,” said Richard. “Are we doing love now, then? In that case, I love both of you too.”  
Dean let out a sigh of relief, and when he told them both that he loved them too, it felt like a weight he hadn’t realised was there had just been lifted.

*** 

“Ben, what’s the matter?”  
“Nothing,” said Ben, displaying his renowned inability to lie convincingly.  
Tom tried the door handle, but found the door was still resolutely locked. His boyfriend had been in Tom’s bathroom for far too long now, too emotionally wound up to even come out and make a run for it back to his own house. He was, in fact, sitting in the bath itself, one of Tom’s towels spread out along the bottom of the tub like a picnic blanket. He was gnawing on his fingernails and soon they would be but stumps. He’d sat like this in his own bath tub the day after that fateful party at Andrew’s house, wrapped up in his biggest, least attractive jumper and a sense of overwhelming inadequacy, and the similarity was not lost on him; he had a terrible fear that this would all go wrong, just like things with Andrew had done. A particularly vicious wrench at his left thumbnail made him hiss with pain, and he stared blankly down at the hint of blood trickling from the ripped nail. Tom heard the intake of breath, and his heart sank.  
“Ben, please,” he called softly. “Please talk to me, darling.”  
“Don’t you understand? I can’t!” Benedict said. He’d climbed out the bath in order to fetch toilet roll to dab over his bleeding thumb, and instead of returning to his nest, he crouched down by the door, forehead resting against the cool wood. “If it was anyone other than you and Noel… I’ve never had a- a mate before, Tom. Noel’s the closest thing to a mate that I’ve got. And you’re the most precious-” He cut himself off. It wouldn’t do to go pouring his heart out if it was due to be ripped out anyway. Why make it easier?  
“Ben? Sweetheart?”  
“Never mind.”  
There was silence, and Benedict sat and gazed mournfully at his bloodied thumb, mind twisting and turning and falling over itself to make him feel bad. His rambling thoughts were interrupted by the sound of scratching and scrabbling on the wall outside, and as he raised his head, brow furrowed, Tom’s face appeared at the open window, wide eyed and anxious looking.  
“What the…”  
“I had to see you somehow, Rapunzel,” Tom said, hauling himself with some difficulty through the aperture. “I knew there was a reason I chose a house with ivy on the walls.” He landed with a thud on the floor next to the toilet. “There. That did it.”  
Benedict let out a gulping giggle, the sort that bubbles from the nose of someone who, if they haven’t been actually crying, have all the potential to cry stuffed up in their nasal passages. Tom scooted up close to him and planted the softest kiss on his nose.  
“Whatever happens between Noel and I has no effect on the fact you are the love of my life and- I say! Good lord, what happened to your thumb?”  
“I bit it,” said Benedict.  
“Hey,” said Tom, “why don’t we keep the biting for the bedroom, hm? I hate seeing you like this, Ben. I promise you, nothing is going to change because of Noel…”  
“It isn’t you, though!” burst out Benedict. “You’re probably perfectly right, you usually are, that’s what you do. It’s me, it’s my problem, because Noel is my friend and I cannot afford to be picking sides!”  
“Benedict. Darling. You don’t have to pick sides,” Tom assured him gently, and slid one arm round the other man, pulling him close against his torso. Benedict sort of fell sideways into his lap and they both ended up tangled on the floor of the bathroom, Benedict’s hands tightly gripping Tom’s shoulders. “Noel and I had a bit of a dispute, that’s all. And I don’t like his behaviour, and he thinks I’m an uptight twat, and doubtless it will all blow over soon enough. It doesn’t mean you have to stop liking either of us, or that we’ll stop liking you. Or, in my case, loving you. Not to mention fancying the pants off you as well, just for good measure.” There was a long pause which started off with the potential to become awkward, and then decided to be companionable instead, during which Benedict mulled over Tom’s words. Something which he later recognised as a smidgeon of confidence made a tentative return to his heart and he raised wide, pale eyes to look directly into Tom’s.  
“Are you sure?” he said eventually.  
“Positive,” Tom nodded.  
“I’m glad,” Benedict said. “Can I- can we just cuddle for a bit, Tom?”

***

James stepped through the doorway with a heavy awareness that he couldn’t leave even if he wanted to. Matt was behind him, crowding into his personal space in a way that Matt, if questioned, would have point blank insisted was protective but in reality was terribly intimidating, and he found himself ushered through several doors and down a corridor, then prodded in the small of the back with something he really, really hoped was a finger and not the barrel of a gun.  
“Up here,” said Matt. “I want to introduce you to my right-hand man. You report to me, but it’s useful to know who he is as well. However, and I repeat this because it is very, very important for you to know it, you only report to me.”  
“Yes… ok,” said James doubtfully.  
“To ME, McAvoy.” The raised volume made James start. Matt chuckled lightly. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I just- get a little protective of my employees, ever since Armitage…” He trailed off in a suitably mysterious manner. “Mathew, get in here!”  
Mathew, whoever the heck he was, did not get in there. James stood shifting from one foot to the other as Matt’s anger once more became palpable.  
“MATHEW!” he suddenly screamed, and brought his fist down, hard and sudden, against the table by his hip. The vase on said table jumped, split water from itself, and subsided under Matt’s vicious glare.  
“Should I maybe-”  
“NO!”  
James shut up at this point, fast reaching the conclusion that he was terrified, and with good reason.  
“I’m here, I’m here,” said someone, hurrying in from, judging by his breathlessness, a part of the building quite far removed from this room. “What’s going on, Matt?”  
“We’ve got a new colleague,” announced Matt proudly, and a wide smile spread across his face as confusion appeared on the other man’s. Clearly, James thought, he had not been expecting a colleague. “Mat Baynton, meet James McAvoy. James is our inside man, Mathew. We’ll be working extremely closely with him from now on.” With this, Matt swept from the room, leaving Mathew and James staring at each other.  
“Please don’t,” said Mat wearily. “I can’t be responsible for any more of his victims. I don’t mean to offend, Mr…?”  
“McAvoy,” supplied James.  
“McAvoy,” repeated Mat. “Yes. Well. He isn’t a well man, Mr McAvoy, and he’s dangerous.”  
“Apparently, so is Armitage,” countered James. Mat cursed under his breath.  
“It’s complicated,” was all he offered. James was slightly on the defensive towards this man by now; Matt was a clear leader, if a deranged one, and this chap seemed quite frankly to be insubordinate and a bit of a troublemaker. He knew he was in too deep to leave now, and the more Mat tried to persuade him otherwise, the more intent on sticking with it James became. He left ten minutes later, having antagonised Matt to the point of almost tearing his hair out and socking the Scot in the jaw, and been issued with strict instructions about his new job. Once home, he slumped down on the sofa and opened his last remaining can of beer. With Matt’s money, plus the honest earnings Armitage’s would yield, he wouldn’t need to worry about going short of drinks again anytime soon.

***  
The night drew into the following morning without any fanfare, or warning that the next 24 hours would be full of high drama. Benedict and Tom greeted the early hours wrapped round each other in Tom’s bed, much like human representations of Yin and Yang. Tom woke first, and ran his hand lovingly along the small ridges of Benedict’s spine. By the happy coincidence of his boyfriend not bringing any pyjamas with him, it had been fairly easy to persuade him to sleep in his pants; the persuasion technique Tom had used had been, quite simply, to slowly, sensually and yet still with an air of casualness, divest himself of all the layers he wore, then curl up on the left side of the bed, pat the space beside him, and say, with one quirk of an eyebrow, “it’s ok, baby. No one will get to see you except me, and if you want I’ll even be a tremendous gentleman and not look”. Within moments, an uncharacteristically untidy pile of the bartender’s clothes joined the stripper’s on the carpet, and their owner laid himself out, catlike, alongside Tom’s warm, lean, enticing body.  
“You don’t have to be a gentleman,” whispered Benedict, once Tom had pulled the duvet over them both and switched off the light. “That is, you can look. We are a couple, after all.” Somehow, him saying it meant that with every assertion, Andrew’s spectre seemed further and further away. It was liberating.  
“I know, but we’re doing this at your pace,” Tom whispered back.  
“Well, tomorrow, my pace involves you- um…” he took a deep breath and blushed in the gloom of the night, “taking me. Tomorrow, we make love.”  
And so it was to that promise that Tom awoke and lovingly traced Benedict’s ridges and dips with something akin to awe. It was with that promise in mind that he brought Benedict back to the lad of the woken with soft kisses trailing down his neck, peppering his stark but soft collarbone, nudging into the shell of his ear. Benedict snuffled awake with a sleepy smile and returned the caresses.  
“It’s today,” were his first words.  
“It’s today,” Tom affirmed. “I’m going to make you feel like the most special man in the universe, Benedict Cumberbatch. You’re certainly the diamond at the centre of mine.”

***  
Dean had set an alarm to wake him at half past eight. He usually didn’t need to bother, but he had Richard and Aidan to look after, and they seemed incapable of getting their own medicine so he was running on a fairly tight schedule, making sure they got well as soon as possible. He rolled over in bed- he couldn’t afford to pick up their germs, and had made up a bed for himself in one of Richard’s spare rooms, safely away from the sickroom- and flapped a hand ineffectually over the top of the bedside table, eventually knocking the alarm clock onto the floor, and having to throw himself heavily out of bed to retrieve, and silence, the sodding thing. An abundance of pill boxes and bottles of cough mixture littered the bedside table, and Dean yawned, gathered as many into his arms as he possibly could, and plodded drowsily into the master bedroom.  
“Guys?” he asked, rasping slightly from sleepiness. “Are you awake?”  
He knew something was wrong the moment he saw only one man sized lump under the covers.  
“Aidan?” he quavered, uncertainly.  
In three short steps he was at the bedside, and gently stroking Richard’s dark hair back from his eyes, before pacing round to the other side of the bed and practically flinging himself down by the prone body of Aidan, lying face down on the carpet, barely moving.  
“AIDAN!”  
Dean’s anguished shout woke Richard at once. The man was so attuned to the needs of his boys that he barely noticed the transition from sleep to waking, or the dulled, but still present, ache in his temples. He was out of bed in a second, crouched by Dean’s side as he tried, with increasing franticness, to rouse the unconscious Irishman.  
“What the fuck has happened?” gasped Dean, shaking Aidan almost violently. “Richard, he’s barely breathing. And he feels like he’s on fire! What am I supposed to do?!”  
“This isn’t the same thing I’ve got,” Richard said tersely. “I don’t know, Dean. But it’s bad, whatever it is- oh!” Aidan had opened his eyes, although he barely seemed to register the men crouched over him.  
“Aidan, can you hear me?” demanded Dean.  
Aidan made a noise, a sound that could barely claim to be words.  
“I’m phoning a doctor,” said Richard. “Get him back into bed, Dean. Carefully, mind.” Dean did not, of course, need telling twice. He levered Aidan up onto his feet, and with both arms holding him like a breakable figurine, guided him back beneath the covers from whence he had slipped.  
“Aidan, stay awake. Please stay awake,” he whispered, desperately. “Please. It’ll be ok, Richard’s getting someone. Richard’s getting help. Look at me, Aidan. Just look at me, stay awake, please don’t fall asleep again. You can’t.”  
Within twenty minutes, a slightly sleepy-eyed but efficient as ever silver haired doctor appeared outside the house, and Richard practically tripped over his own feet in his haste to buzz Dr McKellen into the building. Aidan had somehow, despite Dean’s best efforts, fallen into unconsciousness again, and the doctor thought he had never before seen two men quite so absolutely, entirely, terribly frightened.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Ben get down and dirty in the shower (although Benedict is far from picky about the location) and Aidan... well, things aren't looking great for Aidan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nobody, this is RPF with an emphasis on F for Fiction.

A day off was not such a rare thing, considering they actually worked at night time, but a night off was a relatively special privilege. Tom and Benedict had the perfect way to spend it; currently, they lay entwined, still in Tom’s bed, eating cereal and drinking tea with all the unhurried domesticity of that rare species, the unflustered English. Tom was careful what he did with his hands, because he would have hated to make Ben spill anything, but as soon as the last morsel of cornflakes had been consumed and the teacup replaced on its tray by Tom’s, those hands made good use of their dexterity, tickling their way down Benedict’s body until Tom had him flat on his back, giggling and entirely free from underwear.  
“How do you want to do this?” he asked, lazily running a finger along the veined underside of his boyfriend’s cock. Benedict responded admirably, starting to grow hard almost at once. “That is to say, what have you done before? Before me, I mean?”  
“Uh,” was Benedict’s first attempt at replying. Tom’s gentle, lazy licking at the inside of his thighs did nothing for his eloquence. “Well. Not the full- you know- sex thing.”  
“Ok,” said Tom, and took the head of Ben’s cock between his lips. Neither of them made much sense for the next few minutes. When Tom pulled away, smiling and with a mouth full of Benedict’s ejaculate, he started the questioning again. “Well,” he said, “how about fingering? Because, you know, it takes a bit of getting used to. I refuse point blank to hurt you in any way, ok? If we want to get rough, we do it later.”  
Benedict smiled a small smile and nodded, pulling Tom up to take his wet lower lip between his teeth.  
“I haven’t tried that,” he said, in between kisses. “Andrew tried to, and I nearly bit his ear off in the process. It was awfully unromantic. And then there was another guy who just wanted to do that without any kind of talking, and it was weird, so I quite literally ran away from him, I ran all the way home in nothing but a pair of his tracksuit bottoms. And then I burnt them, and never spoke to him again. It hasn’t,” he laughed wryly, “been a thoroughly successful foray into the world of sex.” He twisted his fingers through Tom’s hair, eliciting a delighted little moan. Benedict’s other hand wormed its way between Tom’s thighs, gently cupped his balls. “However, I would like nothing more than for you to- to open me up. Right now. I don’t care that we’ve just had breakfast, Tom, I want to have you.”  
Tom stared at him with eyes black with a sudden burst of lust. It never ceased to amaze him just how bold his Benedict was becoming. A twisting tug on his cock made his head fall back, and he had a brilliant idea.  
“I think you’ll like this,” he said, and whispered it into Ben’s ear. Ben groaned, and Tom took that as an assent.   
Fetching the small tube of lubricant from a cupboard, and the box of condoms he hadn’t had cause to use in several months, Tom settled himself in the 69 position, with his face close enough to Benedict’s balls that he could literally just poke his tongue out and lick at them. Which he did, with delightful results.  
“Do that again!” gasped Benedict, eyes squeezed shut. Tom obliged, licking long, leisurely swipes across the thin, soft skin there, moving slightly so that he could take Benedict’s not inconsiderably sized dick down his throat; mastering his gag reflex early on in his teenage years had served him well, and Benedict was suitably impressed. “Oh, shiiiiit that’s good,” he rasped. “Oh Tom. You’re- fuck. You’re deep-throating… Oh! Fuck! Yes, ah, good, fuck…” At this point, Tom released his cock with a wicked little chuckle. “Oh Tooooom,” the brunette almost whined.  
“No, baby,” purred Tom from between his thighs, “we can’t have you spending yourself too much before the main event, can we? Where’s the fun in that?”  
Any further protest was cut off by the gentle pressure of a moist fingertip against Benedict’s hole, which brought a startled, muffled little “oh!” from those perfect heart shaped lips.  
“Too much?” asked Tom.  
“No, not too much,” fluttered Benedict. “Not enough. More, Tom.”  
“I love you, beautiful,” murmured Tom, pressing a kiss to Benedict’s backside- which should probably, Benedict thought later, have felt weirder than it actually did- before working that fingertip inside the ring of pink flesh, managing to get his finger all the way in to the knuckle before Benedict let out a whimper.  
“Oh!” he uttered, a second time. “That is incredible, uh…”  
Second and then third fingers joined the first, and soon Benedict was sufficiently relaxed that Tom could work the digits in and out with relative ease. Ben pushed back, wanton and panting, and suddenly Tom was reminded of the delights of this position as his boyfriend’s mouth closed almost gratefully around his cock as he thrust his fingers in ever harder. They somehow established a rhythm whereby Benedict’s greedy sucks matched the motion of Tom’s long fingers. When one of those fingers cleverly crooked itself deep within Benedict’s eager body, the lips around Tom’s cock fell apart momentarily, and a loud gasp from Benedict made Tom smile despite the frustration of losing the sensation around his dick.  
“Unnngh,” said Benedict, his whole body tensed. A trickle of milky fluid dribbled from the head of his neglected cock as Tom rubbed gently but insistently over his prostate. Benedict whimpered. Tom soothed him from the overload of sensation with the removal of his fingers and the introduction of his tongue. Benedict emitted a small scream of shocked delight. Tom’s tongue worked its way around a little, then he pulled back, and replaced it with one finger, not nearly enough for Benedict’s now loosened entrance. Benedict panted, rutted back against Tom’s hand, and Tom was turned on beyond all description to see the way his cock hung heavy, wet and red, completely devoid of contact, below Ben’s body. “T-touch me,” panted Benedict.  
“Yeah?” said Tom. “What do you want, Ben? Tell me,” teasingly.  
“Fingers,” managed Benedict. “More. Fuck me, Tom! PLEASE… Fuck.”  
“Oh, darling,” murmured Tom, “I thought you’d never ask.”

*** 

Dean wasn’t allowed in the room with Aidan. He was sent not only out of the bedroom but right down the stairs and told to do something else, and it made him so angry that he forgot, for a few short moments, to be scared. Dr McKellen, while a thoroughly nice old man, was adamant about these things. Dean thought it thoroughly unfair that Richard got to stay in there and talk about what was going on, but when he wandered upstairs again, still fuming, he found that Richard had been sent out too, but had simply elected to stand right outside the bedroom door, practically moulded to it, waiting for the good doctor to re-emerge. Dean managed a small smile at Richard’s defiance, and crept up the stairs to join him. The soft hand on the bare patch of skin beneath the t shirt in which Richard slept made the Northerner jump, but when he realised it was only Dean, he relaxed into the touch, and even pulled him close into a reassuring hug.  
“He’s going to be ok,” he rasped, as quietly as he could. Dean looked up at him with eyes so wide and full of fear that Richard could almost see tiny, five year old Dean gazing out of them.  
“Is he, though?” Dean wondered.  
“Yes,” said Richard firmly, and kissed the New Zealander full on the lips. It was the first time they had kissed without Aidan being there. Dean clutched at Richard’s t shirt as if letting go would mean a fall from grace, a fall away from everything he knew and loved. They were still caught in the desperate clinch when McKellen pushed open the door and cleared his throat politely, and, if truth be told, a little jealously.  
“Well, it looks like a regular viral infection, similar to yours, Mr Armitage,” he said solemnly. “But there is a distinct chance it may be developing into viral encephalitis."  
"The fuck is that?" whispered Dean.  
McKellen gave him a slightly disapproving glance before continuing.  
"It's an inflammation of the brain and spinal cord," he said, "and while some make a full recovery, it can lead to permanent brain damage, memory loss and epileptic style fits. I really would take him to hospital. Phone an ambulance. They can help him more than I can, I'm just a GP."  
Dean let out a whimper of horror, and tears sprang unbidden to his eyes.   
"Thank you," Richard said, seemingly emotionless. He was in shock. "For your help. Will you stay until the ambulance gets here?"   
"I've got surgery opening in ten minutes," said McKellen, "but if I phone reception and tell them I'll be late..." He tried his mobile, then stared reproachfully at it. "No signal in this place," he muttered.  
"Sometimes you have to stand outside," Richard said. "Leave the door open, it locks automatically when closed."  
Once the doctor had left them, Richard dialled 999 and Dean went in to sit by Aidan's bedside. The young man was conscious, eyes feverishly bright and chest rising and falling far too shallowly and Dean didn't know whether it would be the slightest bit of use, him holding Aidan's hand or even being there at all. He stayed anyway, one warm hand curled around Aidan's own limp one. Aidan's eyes closed slowly, and he didn't grip back- didn't seem able to. Dean knew he would if he could, and it made the dread in his heart press all the more heavily downwards.  
"You can't die on me," he said at last. "We've only just begun, you and me and Richard. You're going to sort out the club's finances, you brilliant little whizz kid, you're going to do great things. You're going to seduce Richard, dressed in a policeman's outfit, remember? You paid for the bloody thing, you might as well get some use out of it. Shit, Aid, what's wrong with you? And why the bloody fuck am I so useless when it comes to doing anything about it?" He let out a half sob as Aidan's previous words came flooding back. "You said you were dying, and I said you weren't because you say such drama queen things and I didn't believe you and Aidan I have never been so sorry."  
A hand on his shoulder made him clam up, but it was only Richard, so he relaxed again.  
“Listen,” said Richard, “it isn’t your fault, Dean. It’s nobody’s fault. It’s just a shit hand of Fate we’ve been dealt, ok? And,” he said, gently gripping Dean’s chin with one large hand, turning his face so that he had to look up at the older man, “he will be alright, Dean.”

*** 

Of all the times for Matt’s recently organised “dawn patrol” to be near the Armitage residence- quite by accident, in fact. Matt had only the vague co-ordinates for the place- today had to be both the best and the absolute worst. The best for Matt, because no sooner had that gawky kid Ben Whishaw phoned him and gabbled out “I’ve just seen your man, Armitage. I know his house!” with the breathless excitement of one who cannot control their excitement because their discovery might, just might, save their life, than Mat was at his elbow telling him to “cool it, Matt. Be calm”, and he hated to do what Mat said, so he rushed off out to the road in question so fast Mat was sure he could see clouds of dust marking his path.   
He was there before the ambulance, before the rest of the road’s well-heeled residents had upped and dressed, and more importantly, before Dr McKellen had finished arguing down the phone with the surgery’s receptionist. It was the absolute worst day, for Richard, for much the same reason.  
“That’s the one? You’re sure?” Matt hissed.  
Whishaw was fairly trembling with excitement, his lip quivering.  
“Are you sure, you scummy little twat?”   
“Yes,” he fairly squeaked.  
“Goooood,” purred Matt. “Now fuck off. You’ve had your fun. Hop it!”  
The lad went, and Matt stayed. He wasn’t stupid, he could tell houses dosed up to their chimneys with security measures a mile off; Armitage wasn’t the sort to spare expense on the illusion of safety. No, he couldn’t go in, couldn’t go any closer than his current position on the corner of the street, from whence he could just about make out the silvery haired figure on the doorstep. But that silvery haired figure would have to leave the safety net of the Armitage abode sometime soon, and as for Matt… well, Matt wasn’t going anywhere.

***  
Two slender, well-muscled figures behind the frosted glass of the shower door entwined as one, and a loud, blissed out moan rent the air. Having thoroughly messed up Tom’s once pristine bedclothes as a result of his wicked teasing and edging of his boyfriend, a shower seemed in order before the main event. Tom had managed to turn that, too, into a game in which the loser always seemed to be Benedict’s ever-present erection. “Get clean, he says,” came Benedict’s voice from somewhere in the cloud of steam, “it’ll be fun, he says. Tom, I’m harder than fucking ever. Will you just-” he pushed back against the fingers that roamed across his buttocks, squeezing lightly, teasing not so lightly at the already loosened little pink entrance. Tom moved his hands away, chuckling.  
“Easy, boy,” he laughed. “I’m not deflowering you in here, we could slip over and die. That’s not the way I want to go.” He drew Benedict in for a filthy kiss. “You’re still not clean,” thoughtfully. “Let me.” He was sinking to his knees in a second, descending with unreasonable amount of elegance to move Benedict’s straining cock aside with gentle hands, and proceeded to soap every single centimetre of skin down there with the softest flannel Ben had ever had the pleasure of feeling on his person. A soft kiss to his balls had him uttering a guttural sound that he would be embarrassed to admit to later on. His head tipped back and he tried to rut against Tom’s face, his shoulder, anything! When that offered up no friction- they were in the shower, after all- he sank one hand into Tom’s soaking wet hair and dug strong fingers into his scalp. Tom growled, struggled to his feet and crowded the barman against the wall. Benedict was only too willing to open his mouth, submissive, and grant the blonde access.  
“Fucking hell,” he said appreciatively, as Benedict’s slippery hands grasped at his equally slippery back. “Those hands, Ben. Knew when I saw you the first time they wouldn’t be the only beautifully big part of you…”   
“And you just let me fancy you from afar?”   
“You were nervous, only seemed happy when you were working. I know where I’m not wanted, Ben. You turned into a monosyllabic beetroot whenever I tried to be friendly; I was clearly making matters worse. Richard kept an eye on you though, and boy am I glad he did. You have no idea how long he’s been trying to set us up!”  
“And you seem to have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for your cock,” said Benedict, with uncharacteristic forwardness and lack of stuttering. “Tom, I just want you. In me. Deeply. Now. Please.”  
“Fuck you and your filthy mouth,” growled Tom. “I had to take the sheets of the bed, you filthy, irresistible beauty. Want me to replace them?”  
“Fuck no,” gasped Benedict. “I don’t care. Who needs sheets? I don’t. You’ve got a sofa. A floor. Some walls, I’m not bothered!”  
They stumbled out of the shower, naked and wet and incredibly turned on, and were glad for the short distance from bathroom to bed, because whatever Benedict’s downstairs brain said, Tom was not letting the man have his first time on the fucking floor, I mean what kind of unchivalrous bastard would that make him?!  
“I thought you wanted sheets?” muttered Benedict, finding himself on his back with Tom’s damp, naked body pressing him gently into the mattress.  
“Fuck the sheets,” murmured Tom with a chuckle, and bit his ear, moving down to the neck, the collarbone.  
“Fuck me,” Benedict corrected him. Tom laughed. Bendict’s breathless giggles mingled with his own. It was the best sound to hear in a relationship, he thought, and nothing would convince him otherwise. “Don’t mess about, Tom. I’m ready, let’s do this.”  
“Yeah?” Tom still used practically a whole new tube of lubricant on the condom, his biggest concern being that Ben wouldn’t enjoy it. “Tell me if I’m hurting you?” He slid a finger in, crooking it so it brushed Benedict’s prostate again, and found him still loose. Benedict’s legs spread further apart, a silent invitation. Tom leant down, kissed his chest, and lined up.  
“Y-yeah,” Ben’s voice came shakily, as the blunt head of his boyfriend’s cock pushed insistently at his hole. “So- big. ‘s good, Tom. I- like it.” He really did; his body seemed to be actively trying to swallow Tom’s entire dick, the hot soft slickness taking it willingly to the hilt and when it was all the way in, Benedict wriggled in an attempt to set a decent pace. Tom gazed down at him in wonder.  
“So eager,” he whispered, sounding wrecked. The heat around his cock was exquisite, the sucking motion as he withdrew ever so slowly just to give Ben the pleasure of being impaled on it all over again. “So beautiful. Fuck, can’t believe I get to be your first, Ben. You- you perfect- I..” There was an absence of words, but plenty of noise, as the pace sped up- dictated, in fact, almost entirely by Ben himself, who had decided he was now a very willing convert to this sex lark.  
“I’m gonna come,” blurted Benedict suddenly.  
“No you’re not,” said Tom, reaching down. The pressure of fingers round the base of Ben’s cock made him whine, but Tom’s eyes held only love. “Because first, I’m going to tell you that I love you.” He grit his teeth as the urge to come in Ben’s arse became almost unbearable, but managed to stave off climax until he had poured words of love, like the best vintage of all wines, into his boyfriend’s open mouth, through those parted, perfect pink lips, straight down Benedict’s throat and right to his soul. Then, and only then, did he let either of them find their release.

*** 

“You can’t sit in the ambulance, ok, don’t make a scene,” warned Richard. He, too, was furious that these people were taking away his boy and not letting him or Dean sit with him en route, but he felt obliged to be the mature, calm adult because Dean sure as fuck wasn’t managing. “We’ll follow it, we’ll be there as soon as he’s allowed visitors- if not before,” he added in a low voice, and gave a conspiratorial wink that momentarily raised the blonde’s spirit. “Come on, handsome. Chin up, we have to be ok for his sake. Yes?”  
“Yes.”  
“Good lad.”  
“Mm.” Dean was unconvinced that his being a good lad would help at all, but he supposed it could not make matters worse. “Where’d that doctor go?” he asked suddenly.  
“Who, McKellen? Back to the surgery, I expect. Busy man, that,” said Richard. “I thought he’d at least see the ambulance off though. But I suppose he doesn’t need to; his work’s done.”  
“I’m going to get dressed,” said Dean. “And then we go to the hospital, yeah?”  
Richard nodded.  
“Want anything to eat before we go?” he asked. “Or drink? Tea, coffee?”  
“I couldn’t keep anything down if I tried,” Dean said frankly. “Are you feeling any better, Richard?”  
“I have to,” said Richard, equally frankly, “because…well, Aidan.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a reconciliation, a bet, a lie, a brief sex scene, and an ending. Not necessarily in that order. Also, a cameo by Noel's brother Michael.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am delighted to welcome my beta and enabler, not to mention my beloved friend, to AO3. She writes under the name of Frognecklace, and she's bloody brilliant (and makes me cry). She is responsible for a lot of the ideas in this fic. Aside from this, the disclaimer that NONE OF THIS IS TRUE OR MINE still remains.

As a highly respected and well-known local face, not to mention an extremely sophisticated gentleman making the sunset years look slicker than they’d ever looked before, Ian McKellen did not expect anything remotely untoward to happen to him. He did not expect the lanky figure to spring up from the hedgerow, and he didn’t expect the THWACK of a fist to his jaw.   
But then, no one could ever really expect Matt.  
Chuckling, the young psychopath hooked his hands under the older man’s arms, musing on the marvellous quality of tailoring displayed by his smart suit jacket, and dragged him away. Nobody noticed- or, if they did, they somehow picked up on the “don’t fucking come near me or you’re dead meat” vibes that Matt tended to exude fairly frequently. Either way, no one intercepted them, and when the good doctor awoke, it was to find himself tied expertly to a chair, with a sharp knife centimetres from his throat. In his younger days, such situations would have just been another average night out, and ended in the mutual ecstasy of all involved, but there was no bright arousal in the eyes that now stared their steely terror into his own, no hint of playful affection, no sense of humanity at all. This was the face of a machine.  
“I want information,” said the machine.  
“Yes,” said McKellen, quietly. He’d met men like this before; hopeless, lost and yet with nothing more to lose, fallen with no further to fall, broken with nothing left to break. The thing was, they’d always been sedated, in small, carefully inoffensive beige rooms with white sheets and scheduled visits from therapists and pill dispensing nurses with bland faces. Their stories were always different, but fell into the same basic, heartbreaking pattern. They hadn’t always been machines, of course. Some of them had, some of them were born with desensitisation in their blood where the thrum of empathy ought to be, but these were the minority. The worst cases were those who had hadn’t got much, and then had that, too, taken from them. This young machine, whoever he was, seemed to have the face of such a character.  
“Armitage and Turner. And that blonde one. What’s going on there? Who’s sick, and will they die? Where have they taken them?” The questions were sharp as the blade that poked ever closer to his jugular as the hand in which it was grasped shook slightly. McKellen opened his mouth.  
“Matt?” came a concerned voice. McKellen closed his mouth, hoping for rescue.  
“Start talking, granddad,” growled the machine. “TALK!”

*** 

It was several hours before Ben and Tom ventured out of the bedroom- before Benedict even let Tom out of his body for any amount of time, come to that. He was giddy with the new found delights of carnality, and could not stop smiling, and laughing, and pulling Tom back for more and more until pleasure gave way to aching soreness and a distinct inability to walk. Which, of course, only provided Tom with another excuse, if one be needed, to wait hand and foot on his boyfriend.  
“I had shopping to do,” said Benedict, nursing his third hot drink of the morning. He was lying on his side, the drink close enough to the table that if his arm suddenly got pins and needles with the weight of his body upon it, he could put the cup down without any spillages. Tom sat on the end of the sofa-because by this point they had managed to get Benedict out of the bedroom, and were in Tom’s living room- and chewed his lip.  
“Was it important shopping?” he asked. “Because if it was food and stuff… you do know you’re perfectly welcome to stay here with me? I have plenty of food…and tea…”  
Benedict beamed up at him.  
“Although we might be running out of condoms,” said Tom, thoughtfully. Benedict choked on his coffee, doubled over and spilling the remainder of the cup’s contents. Fortunately, there wasn’t much left. Tom was all over him in a split second, petting him and cleaning him up and patting his back like you would a colicky baby.  
“Uhm,” wheezed Benedict, “maybe we should go shopping then?” The idea of running out of condoms was on a par with a shortage of tea: disastrous. Tom laughed softly.  
“I can go,” he offered. “You stay here?”  
“Nonsense,” declared the brunette, “I’m staying with you, Tom. I’ll just limp round the town, and everyone will know I just spent the morning having mindblowing sex.”  
“That wasn’t the only thing that got blown,” winked Tom, and sashayed merrily out into the kitchen to find his wallet. Benedict rested his head against the back of the sofa and relished the ache in his arse, and wondered how he’d managed for so long without Tom in his life. This led on to thinking about the others.  
“Hey, Tom?”  
Tom’s head popped round the doorway.  
“Yeah?”  
“Have we heard from Richard lately? Or Dean, about Richard?”  
“No.”  
“Should we phone them? I mean, they are our friends.”  
“Of course we should,” said Tom. “Somewhen. But they might be sleeping.”

***   
“Matt, please, leave him be,” came the soft voice through the locked door. “Look, you asked me to get McAvoy over here, and now he’s here he’s waiting for you to come speak to him and you know I’m not especially keen on him and it’s getting very awkward out here, Matt. He’s your employee, not mine. I don’t even know why you wanted him here, it’s morning and Armitage’s is closed for a couple of days anyway, apparently.” Pause. When it became clear Matt had no intention of replying, Mat continued, pleadingly. “Just leave whatever you’re doing, leave the doctor alone, Matt. Of all the people you don’t want to hurt, think about it… he’s a doctor, Matt. Think about Arthur.”  
On the other side of the door, in the locked room, McKellen’s shoulders tensed as the young man twitched, then hesitantly backed away, staring at the floor.  
“Don’t say that,” he muttered, almost inaudibly. “They didn’t save him, they weren’t there, he’s all gone…” He drew a shaking breath, let the blade clatter to the floor.   
McKellen breathed a sigh of relief, albeit temporary relief, and his eyes fluttered closed. He had told Matt everything he knew about Aidan’s condition- he had no reason to lie. Richard would keep the three of them well protected, the doctor had seen that in his eyes for himself the moment he arrived at the house- and where he’d been taken. He had no information to offer about the club itself, security cameras and the like, but Matt could get that anyway, no doubt. There was a moment when he felt like none of this was real, and a lightheaded, dreamlike sensation washed through his temples. Any moment now someone would come in and help him; the man on the other side of the door seemed sensible.  
“DON’T YOU EVER, EVER MENTION HIM AGAIN!” Matt suddenly screamed, and flung himself at the door, battering at it with his fist as if he were the one imprisoned behind it. “Oh, Arthur.”

*** 

It wasn’t visiting time in the ICU for another four hours.  
Dean felt as if he were slowly going insane with the waiting.  
Richard just felt numb.  
The pristine, impersonal stainless steel and bright white paintwork stretched as far as the eye could see, down never ending corridors with doors hiding rooms where bodies lay in various stages of living decay, each with the same destination in mind. Dean looked up as a small, hunched old man shuffled past with a Styrofoam cup of something that steamed, and settled himself with a grimace in a chair a few feet away from himself and Richard. The man let out a long, pained sigh and Dean felt his levels of tension rocketing.   
“Should we go and look at magazines or something?” he asked, his voice cracking. He didn’t say “do you want to” because that was a stupid question. Nobody wanted anything like that when they were outside a hospital’s ICU. “Aidan might want something…” It was wishful thinking, the sentiment behind which hung awkwardly, heavily, stalely in the air. Richard dragged himself with difficulty from the chair, and they made their way down a corridor, following the sign to the shop.  
“Oh,” said someone, suddenly stepping round the corner and bumping into Dean.  
“Sorry,” said Dean automatically, not looking at the other man.  
“My fault,” said Colin. “I’m sorry.”

***   
Noel sat in the window of the pub, nursing a midday pint, and a sense of self pity.  
“He’s a well-spoken dickbiscuit,” he said. The man across the table raised his eyebrows and gave a small cough. Noel glared at him. “What, Michael?” he demanded, aggrieved. “For pity’s sake, kid, you’re my brother, you’re supposed to be on my side in this!”  
“We- ell,” Michael said, awkwardly.  
“Say it, you little shit!” Noel said, aggrieved. “Say ‘Tom Hiddleston is a dickbiscuit’. Or I’m disowning you.”  
“Noel,” said Michael, in his most reasonable, Noel-placating voice. “You can be a bit odd, the first time people meet you.”  
Noel’s mouth formed a perfect O of shocked betrayal.  
“Michael!”  
“Well, don’t you remember what Mum said to you, when we were little?”  
“No.”  
“She said, ‘rule one- don’t go off talking to strangers’, and you said ‘why not? They don’t intimidate me’ and then she said-”  
“Michael…” Noel said warningly.  
“And then she said ‘it’s not you I’m worried about’,” finished Michael. “That’s how weird you are.”  
Noel sat silent, pensively regarding his pint, for several moments. Then-  
“I suppose… maybe I can be a bit overwhelming,” he admitted, grudgingly. He wouldn’t meet his brother’s eyes, instead staring out into the street. Suddenly, his eyes widened. “Look,” he said. Michael looked.   
“What?”  
“Those two,” said Noel. “That’s Tom and Benedict. Come on, I’ll introduce you!”  
“But what about-” began Michael.  
“Come on!” said Noel.  
They crossed the street with complete disregard for safety- it was a Fielding thing- and followed the lovers round the little shops for a while, because Noel was still essentially a five year old and liked hiding from people and spying on them (not in a sexual way, let me hasten to add). Then, when Tom gave Ben a concerned look, a quiet talking to, and a pat on the arm, and opened the door of Tennant’s Lounge for his boyfriend to go in first, Noel gave a little giggle and rushed in after them. They were sitting down and discussing something on the screen of Tom’s phone, and the Fielding brothers slipped past without being seen, arriving in the doorway to the kitchen with matching smiles.  
“Oh, Daviiiid,” sang Noel.  
David’s head snapped up, and he grinned widely.  
“Hello,” he said. “Who’s your friend?”  
“Brother,” said Noel succinctly. “David, Michael. Michael, David. Hey, David, the love birds are in.”  
“Oh?”  
“You owe me a tenner.”  
“Huh,” said David, suspiciously.  
“Come and see,” said Noel. “Get them to move tables if you want proof.”  
David followed them out, and beamed at Tom and Benedict.  
“Hello, boys,” he chirped. “I was just about to change the table cloth on this one. How’s about you move over there?” He gestured to a table across the other side of the room. Obligingly, they moved tables. “Oh!” exclaimed David, with exaggerated concern. “Benedict, are you alright? You’re limping.”  
Benedict flushed, refused to answer. Tom coughed delicately.  
“You owe me a tenner,” repeated Noel. "I told you Tom would top."

***

"Who was that?" asked Richard, as they stood in the queue in the small, cramped hospital gift shop. Doting new grandparents stood browsing the shelves of pastel hued teddies, while red eyed relatives almost drained the coffee machine dry in an attempt to stay awake for news of their loved ones. Richard and Dean felt very of place. Everything about the place was respectable, and it was almost as cloying as the scent of the disinfectant which permeated every corner. Dean wanted to be sick.  
"Who was who?" he asked.  
The queue moved forwards, imperceptibly.  
"That chap you bumped into," Richard said. "Looked familiar. Thought you knew him."  
Dean shook his head.  
"No idea," he said.  
"I recognised him, but I can't place the face," Richard said. "Must be me getting old."  
"Don't...say that."  
Pause. Richard gazed at the blonde head in front of him, mapping every strand and wave somewhere safe at the back of his brain.  
"I'm sorry, Dean." It meant multiple things. Dean was too tired to even try and decode more than one of them.

***  
"He's nipped out. Speaking to the staff," Mat said, trying to be lighthearted. "I'm sorry about this. Here." He deftly cut the ties binding the good doctor, and tentatively rubbed at the man's wrists. "Is that better?" Not waiting for a reply, he carried on "Leave. Go. Straight down the stairs and out of the door and run."  
McKellen was halfway down the stairs when Matt appeared, a nervous looking man behind. McKellen recognised the second man as a patient at the surgery once. A spark of recognition sprang up in James' eyes, and Matt snarled.  
"You're done with him, let him leave," said Mat. His attempt at sounding commanding fell flat.  
"Too right I'm done with him."  
The blood spurted out before anyone had chance to move or even to see the blade. McKellen gasped, more shocked than anything, and never managed his last words.  
"Fuuuuuuck," breathed James, fearfully. He gulped.  
"Armitage's little lap dog," Matt lied. "He deserved what came to him. Baynton, dispose of the body. There's road maintenance going on up by the roundabout tonight, get some of the boys together and- well, you know what to do."  
"He was a doctor!" James protested weakly.  
"Ha! Shows how much you know. This is why you're staying with me for a while," said Matt. "You're a great ally, but naive beyond all fucking belief half the time. Baynton, WILL YOU GO!" Baynton went, on legs that trembled and with a heart full of dread. This was terribly, awfully, hideously bad. Matt was a monster!   
James stayed, because Matt made him stay. The club was closed indefinitely- not a great start to his new career- and Matt had insisted on having him to stay for a few days. Initially, James had resisted, then his kitchen caught fire and his landline was cut off. It wasn't the subtlest of methods, but it worked. Here he was. He had with him a suitcase full of basics, which he dragged behind him as he followed Matt dejectedly along the back alleyways, through winding shortcuts that meant discovery by the police was unlikely. Once at the house occupied by the Englishman, he followed Matt further, up the staircase and into the room Matt had chosen for him. This room was spacious and welcoming and looked far too normal for a man like Matt Smith. James was suspicious, and the moment he was left alone he started searching for hidden cameras and other devices for creeping on guests. He found several within ten minutes, and felt his whole body flush hot with worry- what was Matt up to? He rummaged for his mobile phone and slipped into the ensuite bathroom. A thorough check of the bathroom yielded no further bugs, and so he slumped against the mirror and dialled the number of the one friend he could trust. The ringing tone sounded in his ear and there was no reply, and as he stared at himself in the mirror, waiting, he noticed that there was a gap between the reflection of his arm and the arm itself resting on the glass. He gasped, pulled away and ended the call. It was a two way mirror! That was why there were no bugging devices; Matt could see the whole of the bathroom from the room next door! James threw up a little in his mouth.  
"Oh Ja-aames," came a voice from the adjoining room. "Are you in the bathroom? I want to talk to you."  
"Out in a sec," croaked James.  
"Just about your salary," said Matt. "Oh James, you didn’t think I was coming to get you, did you? Don’t be silly, you’re an asset. And that’s how you’re going to stay. Ok?”

***   
“So have you heard any more about Richard?” enquired Noel. The quarrel with Tom was, it seemed, all water under the bridge now. It had been swept away by the conversation Noel had dragged Tom away to have at the bar, having spent exactly two minutes thirty seven seconds staring, almost unblinkingly at the fair haired man until he felt overwhelmingly uncomfortable and started to pinken at the cheeks. At this point, Noel dragged him to the counter, hopped up on a bar stool, and regarded him with wide, earnest eyes. “Listen,” he had said, “I’m sorry if I was a tit the other day. I’ve sort of…grown up in my own little bubble. Michael told me it’s a bit weird.” Tom’s face lit up, touched at the effort Noel had made- and the surprising level of humanity he displayed- and he replied “and I’m sorry if I was, you know, abrasive. You’re brilliant, you know. Ben thinks you’re fantastic. Never change, ok?” Then it was Noel’s turn to beam. “I’m really happy for you two,” he said. And then “I bought a new bowler hat the other day. It’s purple. That makes my collection up to seventeen.” When they returned, nattering away, Benedict had never felt more relieved, while Michael sat back and basked in the knowledge that he still had the ability to persuade his big brother not to be a tit to people; it was a rare and precious gift he possessed. “From Dean, or anyone?”  
“They won’t answer their phones,” said Benedict. “We’ve tried. I don’t know, maybe they’re sleeping it off?”  
“Probably,” said Tom, reassuringly, but convincing no-one. “I’ll try again this evening.”

*** 

At the same time the worried little huddle in Tennant’s Lounge were fretting about them, Dean and Richard sat either side of Aidan’s bed, with the curtains pulled close around them. The whole ward- to which Richard and Dean’s world had suddenly narrowed- was filled with incessant but muffled beeps and occasional bubbling sounds from the cleaners, and sometimes there would be a discreet but definite swell in murmured conversation between people keeping a vigil by other bedsides, talking to each other and sometimes to the prone body they awaited.  
Richard was still too shocked to speak, Dean too overwhelmed to make any noise that didn’t crack and choke. Aidan’s dark hair looked almost pitch black now, against the unearthly pallor of his face, usually bright with a mischievous smile, now gaunt and vacant. There was no telling how long they’d have to wait, and they knew it. They still hadn’t managed a single word, to each other or to poor Aidan, by the time the nurses came round to usher the visitors out and tell them they could come back later.  
“We’ll let you know if there’s a change,” one of them said. Dean nodded, Richard said a terse “thank you. Goodbye.”  
If there’s a change.  
A change, not progress.  
Fuck.  
“I- are we going home?” asked Dean.  
“We can’t really stay here,” Richard said reluctantly. “I’m just going to nip to the toilet. Go wait for me in the car if you want.” He handed him the keys, and vanished through a squeaky door. Dean padded out to the car park, shivered in the sudden brisk gust of breeze that greeted him, and sat in the car, staring at his reflection in the little rear view mirror. He looked, he thought unkindly, fucking hideous and really bloody rough, but as the seconds ticked by, he stopped caring, and all his thoughts centred around needing Richard back, and now.  
The door opened and Dean sucked in a sharp breath. Richard sank into the driver’s seat.  
“Didn’t hear you,” said Dean, exhaling slowly.  
“Sorry,” said Richard, and then he was leaning in, his fingers closing possessively on Dean’s jaw as he drew the Kiwi in to brush his lips against Dean’s own. The brush became overwhelmingly predatory, and there was no denying who was dominant in the ensuing battle of tongues. Dean broke away.  
“Need you,” he whimpered. Richard growled. They barely made it home safely; Dean’s nimble hands roamed across Richard’s body as he sped down an increasingly dusky highway, and when they reached home, they stumbled in through the door, barely managing to close it before Richard had Dean’s skinny jeans round his ankles. Dean kicked them away. He wasn’t wearing anything beneath, and Richard growled in his throat to find the blonde’s cock already flushed and straining for him. He wrapped one warm hand around it, gave it a pre-emptory tug. Dean gasped as his thumb brushed over the weeping slit; this was going to hurt, and he wanted it so much he already felt like exploding.  
“I want you on your back, tied to the bed, in five minutes,” growled Richard, and bit him. He hustled Dean upstairs and smacked him against the landing wall in order to rid himself of his own trousers and lift Dean’s heavy balls out the way to rub one spit slicked digit at Dean’s entrance. “Bed.” He turned away to pick up lubricant and condoms, and when he looked back, Dean was on his back, legs splayed. Richard had his wrists tied to the bed in seconds, far too deftly for Dean’s liking; here was a man who knew his kinks. “Safeword is Belgrade,” rasped Richard, as he rubbed the second finger into Dean’s arse, followed with very little in the way of real preparation by his dick. Dean whimpered, relishing the stretch and burn of Richard’s hard flesh rubbing inside him, and cried out as the weight of his lover’s body brushed his own needy erection with nowhere near enough friction. Richard reached down and jerked at him, slipping probing fingers beneath to fondle the heavy balls there, then back to feel his own cock moving wetly in and out of Dean’s hole, edging the blonde until he was crying, tears streaming down his cheeks, and begging “please Richard, please, fuck, need you, want you, need your cock Rich, please, fuck me, harder, come in me Rich… please…”  
“I’ve got you,” growled Richard, fucking impossibly harder into Dean’s shaking body. “Such a filthy boy, such a dirty mouth Dean, I love you so much, it’s gonna be ok.” He felt his balls tighten, grit his teeth as Dean’s body welcomed him back inside for the moment of climax. “AH! Ah, D- Dean, shit, such a filthy, beautiful- love you- fuck- DEAN!”  
He came with a guttural, animalistic sound that brought Dean over the edge moments later, Richard’s hand sliding over his spurting cock, milking him dry, come dribbling down Richard’s fingers.  
“I need you,” he whimpered. Richard smiled down at the exhausted boy beneath him, brought his semen stained fingers up to Dean’s lips and gently wiped them there. Dean’s cock twitched again as he licked the fingers clean, and he tried to touch Richard, but his hands were still bound. Richard gently loosed them, and Dean looped his arms round his neck, panting, exhausted and blissed out.  
“I love you so much,” Richard whispered against his cheek. Dean was already slipping into a sated, temporary peace, and never made a reply.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burying a body goes horribly wrong, and Richard has some backstory because I wanted to write Graham McTavish/Richard Armitage porn so that's my excuse for that. (Also if anyone here ships Brolin I'm really sorry for what I did to Bradley in this chapter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not mine, y'all.

It was rapidly approaching midnight as the patrol car made its way along the highway towards the roundabout, on the lookout for a group of men acting suspiciously, following a tip off from an anonymous but very frightened sounding civilian. DI Simm was driving, and keeping up a constant monologue of abuse and foul mouthed hatred of everyone and then some, while Sergeant Barratt hunched miserably in the passenger seat, staring out the window with his radio in hand. He’d been kept late, sifting through inordinate amounts of paperwork, and consequently had been compelled to blow off his date with Noel. He was mortified. He’d also much rather be blowing Noel himself. It was a bad day.  
The car screeched to a halt at the roundabout, and three men in muddy high visibility jackets appeared from a hole in the road. One of them held a shovel, with which he had been busily filling in the hole in the ground. There had been roadworks at this spot for most of the past week, but they were meant to have finished by now; there was nothing not suspicious about this scene at all.  
“Excuse me,” called Simm, from the window. “What is going on here?”  
“Fuck!”  
Well, that was to the point, he supposed, and almost dreaded getting out the car to look in the pit, in case there was a fuck going on. He did not need a road maintenance orgy to round off his already draining day…  
“Excuse me?” he repeated, climbing out of the car. Then, everything happened at once. The man with the shovel hurled it at him, smashing part of the patrol car’s windscreen, and took off at a frantic, stumbling run. One of the remaining two men fired a shot, and there was a piercing scream, and someone else shrieked “it was death either way, Smith!” and two more shots rang out. Two bodies hit the ground, and Simm took off after the one who’d thrown the shovel, leaving, rather inconsiderately, his sergeant to bleed profusely from his forehead, curse ever joining the fucking Force in the first place, and call for backup.

*** 

The sound of sirens out in the street jerked David from sleep, and he sat bolt upright, eyes wild and hair a mess. The sirens faded as the vehicles from whence they emenated disappeared into the distance, but authoritative shouts and the unmistakable sound of dogs barking did nothing to alleviate his tension. He climbed out of bed and pulled back the curtains, almost blinded by a piercing flashlight from somewhere on the ground. It seemed to be some kind of raid... David hadn't dabbled since his early twenties and had nothing to worry about, but he was an incurable nosy parker.   
"The fuck's going on down there?" he yelled, to anyone who would listen.  
"There's gunmen!" someone shouted back. "On the loose. And somebody's killed the doctor!"  
David didn't know which doctor, or how near these gunmen were, but he slammed his window shut and leapt back into bed nontheless, huddled beneath multiple blankets, where he lay motionless for quite some time, before reaching for his mobile phone and calling Martin.

***   
“We need to go.”  
“What? It’s three in the fucking morning, Mathew! Talk sense!” Matt was outraged, and quickly shut his laptop, hiding the fact that he’d been working on a letter to Arthur. People seemed to think it was cathartic, but he still preferred killing people.  
“I am. There’s a manhunt out there, looking for me. We’ve lost two of the boys and the police have got McKellen’s body. It’s all going horribly wrong, Matt. Now do you want to spend the rest of your days incarcerated, or will you come with me?”  
“You’re fucking kidding me?”  
“I wish. Come on!”  
“Wait.”  
“WE CAN’T WAIT!”   
“McAvoy.”  
“Bloody leave McAvoy, he’s done nothing wrong.”  
“No, but he might!”  
“Matt…”  
“Give me a sec.”  
Two minutes later, and a serious amount of bullshit and money that Matt seriously hoped was enough to keep James on side, the two of them made their hasty escape and were out of the county in an hour. James stayed put, and stared in awe at the £50 notes littering his bedroom. It was like a scene from a film, and almost seemed worth all the bugging devices and two way mirrors. He was rich, and he had a part to play. He wondered when the club would open again and he could get down to business. He took out his phone, flicked through the   
contacts, and dialled Richard's number.

***

"What the actual fuck?"  
"Gunmen on the loose. Dean, look, this can't be anyone other than Matt- I mean, if it is anyone else- and I doubt that with every fibre of my being- it's at least related to him. Turf warfare, inter-gang rivalry... I don't know or care. We're going over to the hospital!"  
"Richard, calm down a sec," Dean pleaded blearily.  
"I bloody well will not!" exploded Richard,struggling into underpants he only later realised belonged to Dean. "We can't stay here! I've remembered who that guy at the hospital was. Dean, he works for Matt Smith!"  
There was an awful pause as the words soaked through the blonde's sleep fogged brain, and then he was out of bed and dragging on clothes like a creature possessed, cursing and desperate and overwhelmed with terror for Aidan's safety. They were in the car with the local radio on when the message came through from a concerned sounding DJ that everyone should stay inside.  
"Bollocks to that," snarled Richard, and accelerated so hard Dean nearly knocked himself out. "Oh, my phone's buzzing. Pass it here, Dean?"  
"Pass it here my arse," snorted Dean, "you're driving dangerously enough as it is. It's a text from Martin. You also have three missed calls from him, and one from the new guy, McAvoy."  
"Shit, I hope they're ok," said Richard, and then swerved manically to avoid a deer. "Fucking Bambi!" he uttered but Dean was relieved to note that he slowed down marginally, and they made it, miraculously, to the ward Aidan was on without running over, punching, or being shot at by anybody. Getting in was eerily easy; the ward sister was nowhere to be seen, and the only sign of life came, ironically, from the beep and hum of the life support machines lining the room. They found Aidan in moments, unharmed, angelic in the unnatural light, and blissfully unaware of the storm at which he seemed to be the centre.  
"Thank all things holy you're alright, you poor, beautiful bastard," Richard murmured, sinking down on his knees by the Irishman. "We're staying with you, ok? Matt's gone completely off what was left of his rocker, and there's a gunman on the loose. And Martin says someone's killed a doctor..." Realisation dawned and quickly bred horror. "He means McKellen. Fuck, Aid. Fuckfuckfuckfuck- it's all our fault."

***   
Anyone watching would have been afforded the dubious privilege of witnessing a young man losing his reason for living. Out in the shadow of a slowly dawning day, Colin stood in the car park with a phone pressed to his ear, clasped in a hand shaking so much he had to use his other to steady it.  
"It was Bradley, wasn't it?" he said, voice cracking. "He said he had a job to do, said he and Eddie had been picked to go and- and- Matt?"  
"I'm sorry," said Matt. "Oh wait. On second thoughts... No... No I'm not. You are all of you dispensible, Morgan. You work for me and matter less, and you'll keep your fucking trap shut unless you want a bullet through it. I'm coming back, Morgan, and don't you ever, for a second, forget that." there was a pause filled only with Colin's gulping sobs, and then Matt spoke again. "You still at the hospital? Turner any different?"  
"No," said Colin, looking back to the corridor leading to the ICU. He could see Dean surreptitiously edging out of the ward and heading down the corridor in the direction of the toilets. "Nothing to report here."

***   
"I wasn't always like this, you know," Richard addressed the sleeping figure. "All grown up and sombre. I didn't always wear expensive suits and boss people around. When I was your age- that makes me sound ancient! - I was a lot more like you. Fun. Carefree. Hell, I was as good looking as you once as well!" He stroked a hand down Aidan's cheek, over his cold lips, willing them to open and wishing pearly whites would nip at his hand, that wicked tongue lapping like an eager puppy. "When I was seventeen I ran away and joined an Eastern European circus, believe it or not. I was determined to do outrageous, wonderful things- I spent half my time in a leotard, dodging the advances of the knife thrower. Fortunately he was better at knife throwing than seduction, and didn't hold grudges, so I don't have any scars." Pause. "We spent a summer in Belgrade, and I met a Scottish businessman in a restaurant- I tripped over his briefcase, he bought me dinner- and he took me back to his hotel room. McTavish, his name was. It could have been straight out of a film." Memories came washing across the shore of his mind and a smile hazily brightened his otherwise serious face. He could almost smell the leather.  
"You're so beautiful," came the voice above him. "Such perfect skin. I can give you such pleasure if you'll let me mark it."  
Richard shivered, staring up from his prone position on the bed, the sexuality thrumming in the air making his breath quicken and nipples harden. The man trailed a leather riding crop down the side of his face, down his neck and into the slightly open gap at the top of his shirt, which didn’t last long; McTavish soon had it loose from Richard’s shoulders, allowing the path of the crop to continue down a tanned chest and lightly muscled torso, the result of hard graft with the circus. Richard sucked in a happy little gasp. He didn't know how to say that he was still technically a virgin, but somehow it didn't matter. The older man gave him plenty of options to say no, told him Belgrade was the safe word, and that "much as I'd like to, I won't gag you in case you need to use it". He stripped down and knelt over the young man's chest, guiding his cock to Richard's mouth, rubbing the slick head against his lips until they parted, and stroked his dark hair as the red flesh disappeared in and out of the eager gap.  
"Such a good boy, so good at sucking cock," crooned the Scot, as Richard's cheeks hollowed and his hand slipped behind the businessman's body to touch himself. "Oh, are you playing with yourself now? So needy, so impatient!" He thrust particularly hard into Richard's mouth, making him choke and cry out with pleasure. "I'm going to come down your throat and then we'll deal with those wandering hands of yours." He made good on his promise; Richard had barely regained his breath following the other man’s orgasm before he was dragged from the bed and bent over the desk- McTavish seemed to have no regard for the biological necessity of a refractory period- with leather ties fastened around his wrists to prevent any illusion of free will. Richard let out a guttural moan as the tip of something nudged at his arse-  
“Ah- neurghhhh.”  
The sound snapped Richard unceremoniously from the hotel room, away from his imminent buggering by Graham McTavish, and back to the present day, where he found two wide, dark eyes staring blankly at him from the bed. They were the eyes of a young man just rescued from falling off a roof, a young man scared, and a young man he loved very much.  
“Aidan?” Richard said, barely daring to believe what he saw.  
“Uh-nnnf,” Aidan said, and gripped weakly at Richard’s arm. The nurses had warned Richard that his speech might take a while to come back, that motor skills might never return to their previous practised smoothness, but still, seeing Aidan so vulnerable… it hurt him.  
“Aidan,” he said again. The younger man contorted his face into a semblance of a smile.  
“So,” he croaked, “you still got that leotard then, Rich?”

*** 

Benedict liked breakfast in bed. Breakfast in bed- and more precisely, in Tom’s arms, in bed- was blissful. The ache in his arse had dissipated to a pleasant reminder that it liked having Tom in it, and he was no longer the awkward virgin type- the thought brought a happy little quirk to his lips, and the prettiest rose blush to the tips of his ears- and the duvet was as warm and soft as Tom’s skin, and everything was marvellous.  
And then Tom went and turned on the tv, and the news came on, and the breakfast presenter was solemnly interviewing DI Simm about the death of two men and the critical condition of a third and the wounding of a sergeant, and Benedict felt his heart leap up somewhere into his mouth as the names of those involved scrolled across the screen.  
“That’s- that’s Richard’s GP,” he whispered, clutching Tom’s hand beneath the blankets. “And the sergeant- that’s the one Noel was meant to be seeing.”  
“And that’s DI Simm,” said Tom, dispassionately; for Tom to be dispassionate about anything was akin to a declaration of hatred from any normal human being. “I wonder how Richard and Dean are doing, then. They never answered our calls.”  
“Try again,” urged Ben. “And phone Noel.”  
“We really need to get you a replacement phone, darling,” said Tom, but reached for his own mobile anyway. “We’ll do that today. Phone shopping. We’re becoming quite domesticated!”

***   
“Dean!”  
“They found you, then?”  
Dean reached the door of the ICU, and saw Richard sitting outside on a plastic chair, tense but smiling.  
“What? Oh, the nurses? Yeah, they kicked me out- but that’s not the point, Aidan’s come round. He spoke to me, Dean. He bloody spoke!”  
Dean let out a low whistle of delight, and suddenly Richard was on his feet, wrapping the blonde in an almost bone-crushing hug. Dean laughed softly into his jacket and pointed this out, at which point Richard replied that they were in a hospital anyway and Dean should consider it a privilege to have Richard crush his bones with the sheer force of his love.  
“Ah, get off me, you sentimental sod,” laughed Dean, wriggling free at last. “Seriously, though- Aidan’s getting better. I have never been more relieved!” He paused, craned his head to look behind him, and then added, “especially as…”  
“Especially as what?”   
“Well… I met one of Matt’s lot in the corridor.”  
“You did WHAT?” Richard’s voice thundered through the whole hospital complex, and in the maternity ward, a lightly dozing baby simultaneously screamed and soiled its nappy, quite possibly as a direct consequence.  
“He’s running a dictatorship of the streets, Rich,” Dean said. “Colin- that is to say, the guy I met- was sent here to spy on us, and if Matt decided, to cut off Aidan’s life support, put air bubbles in his blood supply, whatever it took to fuck us over… but Matt’s skipped town, apparently- the man hunt for his boys has him running scared. He’s not here anymore, Richard, might not be back for quite some time.” There was a pause, as Richard tried to digest this plot twist. “We’re safe,” said Dean.  
“How come he told you all this? Have you never heard of a double bluff?” scowled Richard, unconvinced.  
Dean looked at the ground.  
“I don’t think he’s lying,” he said.  
“Why?” sharply.  
“You heard about the guy who died? Not McKellen, the other one? Matt’s minion?”  
“Of course. His name was James, wasn’t it?”  
“Yeah, Bradley James, that’s him,” said Dean. He scuffed his shoe against the leg of the chair, and couldn’t bring himself to look Richard in the eye for fear of the light catching the tear that sparkled at the back of his own. “Colin was going to propose to him tonight.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the gang reunites, Benedict goes all possessive on Tom's ass, and Jensen Ackles and Misha Collins (and West) drop by for a guest appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nope, not my characters. These guys are based on real people. Also I'd just like to say if anyone has any requests for cameo appearances, please do comment with them and I'll try and shove a few in. I always need supporting characters :)

“What the hell went on last night, Simm?” With these words, the Chief Superintendent greeted the surly faced DI, and, not fifteen minutes later, dismissed him with the words “you’re dismissed.” He left the room, and the Smith case, simultaneously, and did not bother stopping by to see how his poor sergeant was doing.  
“What’s going to happen now?” asked Barratt, when he heard his superior had been sent away to deal with traffic direction.  
“We sort this shit out,” came the reply. “Who have we got who’s good on gang warfare?”

***  
“Man, we really should open up the club again,” said Dean, scrolling through Richard’s emails, as they sat in the car in the hospital car park. Richard made a half hearted attempt to grab at his phone, but Dean dangled it out the window, out of reach. “There’s a fuckload of complaining customers emailing in about how they basically have no social life and no new wank bank material without us,” he continued, scrolling further. “Although I’m not sure half of these aren’t just Martin making up fake email accounts for himself...”  
“Demanding little sod,” said Richard affectionately. “Go on then. Tell people we’ll be back to business tonight. First of all though, I’ve got to fire Gatiss.”  
“Why?”  
“He’s been creaming off the profits for months, and I was too bloody dumb and wrapped up in my boys to notice.”  
“He was what?”  
“I only got a C in Maths, ok, I dropped it for A-Level,” Richard defended himself. “I knew the accounts weren’t adding up, I just thought I was being an idiot. I trusted him, Dean. Aidan was sorting them out but then- well, this happened.”  
“I’m not judging, Richard,” Dean said softly. “I’m shocked he’d do that, but I'm not judging you. I thought he was a cool guy.”  
“He was always a bit shifty though,” sighed Richard. “With hindsight, his comment on the leaving card we did for Jimmy Nesbitt should have alerted me to his criminal tendencies. I am Mark Gatiss and I will kill again," he quoted with a sigh. "I suppose I expected murder, if anything, not fraud. But still... He's not fucking getting away with it anymore. I'll get lawyers on him, and Aidan's having his job." And with this declaration, this air of finality, Richard slammed his foot down and they roared home.

***

"We're back in business." Richard broke the good news to Martin down a crackly phone line.  
"Fucking about time too," said Martin, with as much warmth as anyone ever elicited from the man. There was a pause, then. "How's your Irish bit?"  
"Back in the land of the living," Richard said, unable to keep the smile out of his voice. "Talking, sort of. And newly employed."  
"Oh?" suggestively.  
"No such luck, Martin. Aidan keeps his clothes firmly on for the job I have lined up for him. I've fired Gatiss, and I'm prosecuting the bugger." Martin made an impressed noise. Richard wondered if he was ill. "Aidan doesn't know anything about it though, I reckon he needs a decent surprise for a change. All the last ones have involved him being hunted like a fucking animal."  
And so it was that, in the glow of a bright golden sunset, arriving in dribs and drabs, the gang was once more reunited- minus Aidan, obviously, but they took a group photo which Richard sent to him. They all pulled silly faces, and still managed to be quite the handsomest bunch of motherfuckers around. James felt very out of the loop, and the bitterness this gave rise to only worsened when he went to speak to Dean before they went on stage together.  
“Hey- um- oh.” He stopped, noticed the red marks and bruises Dean was sporting. “Are you- ok? The bruises-”  
“It’s nothing.” Dean was uncharacteristically abrupt. James flinched, and across the room, Tom’s eyes widened.  
“Oh, sorry, I… I just. No. Never mind. I’ll- see you in a minute?”  
“Yeah.”  
James left feeling deflated, and in no mood at all to get his kit off and shake it about for drunk businessmen, and Martin, to whom he had just been introduced and who, he thought, was probably a real dark horse. He would not want to meet the man in a dark alley. Dean crossed to where Richard stood, and tapped him on the shoulder.  
“Oh, hello handsome.” Richard was almost flushed with the pleasure of having his natural habitat back around him- that habitat being, of course, a combination of the club and his boys- and Dean smiled softly at him, intimately, with the promise of further pleasures of a different sort once the lights went down.  
“James is getting suspicious,” he said with a laugh, “he saw my bruises.” Richard’s eyes darkened at the memory of taking Dean repeatedly against the wall, the floor, tumbling into bed and wrenching his head back so he could stare into his eyes as he dragged the blonde over the edge… His jeans began to noticeably constrict.  
“Fu-uuuck,” growled Richard. “The things you do to me…”  
“You’ll see what I’ll do to you later,” winked Dean. “What’s more, you’ll be feeling it. For,” and he leant in to graze the taller man’s jaw with his lips, “daaaays.”

*** 

“It’s good to be back,” said Benedict, almost sprawling across the bar. “Good to be home, I think.”  
“Good to see your boyfriend get naked on stage again?” teased Noel. Benedict waited for the blush to flame up the sides of his face; it never arrived. He smiled broadly, surprised and delighted, and nodded.  
“That too,” he grinned. He took a step backwards to survey the dancefloor, and promptly tripped over the broom handle to which Noel’s beloved cabbage was affixed. “I say! Is that still here?”  
“No, what made you say that?” deadpanned Noel. “Oi, keep it on the hush down, Ben, Richard hasn’t noticed it’s still in here.”  
“Noel, you’ve chained it to the bar!” Benedict hissed, suddenly spying the chain.  
“Shush,” said Noel, and placed his orange-nailed forefinger over Benedict’s lips. “Bartender’s honour that you won’t tell.”  
“Hey, guys?”  
A lazy American drawl attracted their attention, and both Englishmen stared in momentary wonder at the giant looming out of the shadows and over the bar. The man was bronzed and beautiful, and everything Noel had fantasised about in his phase of having cowboy related wet dreams.  
“Uh- hello,” said Benedict. “What can I get you, Sir?”  
“Man, you English really are insanely polite! I like it,” smiled the giant. “Sir makes me feel like I’m on set of a blue movie though. Call me Jensen.”  
“Jensen,” Benedict tested out the name, found it rolled around his tongue quite palatably, repeated it. “Jensen. Yes, what can I get you?”  
“Map of the neighbourhood,” said Jensen. “I’m only here for a week, figured you’d know where to go, what to see?”  
“Apart from the best damn strip joint in all the land, you mean?” Noel grinned.  
“Well, yeah,” Jensen agreed, with a lopsided smile. “And a beer, too,” he added as an afterthought, craning his neck to look behind him. “Hey, Misha. What’re you having?” The unseen Misha apparently declined a drink, so Jensen shrugged and leant on the bar, taking up most of it. His eyes could not help but light on the cabbage. He gestured at it, raised his eyebrows.  
“Long story,” said Benedict.  
“Man, whips and chains belong in the bedroom, not on a cabbage,” drawled the American. Noel’s eyes lit up, and Benedict coughed discreetly. It was a quote he’d have to store up and repeat to Tom at an appropriate moment. He looked over to see his boyfriend, and his blood ran cold. Noel, being the perceptive fellow he was- far too perceptive on some occasions, but just the right amount in this instance- popped up over his shoulder and poked him.  
“Hey, lover boy, who kicked your kitten?” he asked. “You’ve suddenly gone all solemn; it’s bad for business!”  
“Nothing,” said Ben, barely audible. Noel heard, though.  
“Fuck off is it nothing! Richard hasn’t been over all night, so it can’t be him going all alpha male on your arse,” he said. “Oh. It’s that new kid, isn’t it?”  
“It’s probably nothing,” said Benedict.  
“Ben, people in relationships trust each other and they talk about things,” Noel said, with a hand in the small of Benedict’s back which Ben found extremely reassuring. “Go on, he’s on his break, you take yourself over there and give the lad what for.” Benedict faltered. Noel gently nudged him with his foot. “Go on, go get your man,” he encouraged, then added with a wink, “guuurl.”

*** 

James broke away as Benedict approached, possession flaring in his eyes. It was a version of Benedict nobody had seen before, and he didn’t realise he had become such a person.  
 _“I’m amazed anyone would want him, he’s about as socially capable as a fucking lawnmower.” Laughter greeted this remark, and the scent of cigarette smoke crept round the side of the school building and wafted up Benedict’s nostrils. “It was fun while it lasted, though. Even if it was a complete no go getting into his pants. You’d think the boy lived in a monastery!” More laughter. Andrew was getting more popular with every new anecdote he relayed. The ginger boy felt sick, from the smoke and the words, and skulked away._  
The skulking figure was, however, no more. This new, empowered Benedict was more akin to a tiger, his eyes blazing and his hair glowing in the strobe lights- a hint of his natural auburn was creeping through the brunette dye he favoured, and as yet kept secret from Tom, and he looked like a terrible avenging angel.  
"Ben?"  
"I just wanted a word," said Benedict, briskly.  
"I'll be right back, James," said Tom. Benedict's jaw twitched. If he had anything to do with it, Tom would not be back anytime soon. He took Tom's hand and led him outside, where he leant against the wall and lit a cigarette with a hand that did not shake at all.  
"What's the matter, Ben?" asked Tom.  
"I don't like the way he's looking at you."  
"Ben, darling, have you discovered jealousy?" Tom sounded pleasantly surprised. "Goodness, you're positively thrumming with pent up aggression. I think I like it." He ran his hand along Ben's forearm, bare and silvery in the moonlight. The hairs there stood up to meet Tom's caress, but Benedict was resisting the advances, and stayed stern.  
"Tom, I'm not keen on him," he said frankly.  
"You are! You're jealous!" Tom still sounded playful. Benedict, frustrated that he wasn't seeming to get through to Tom, wrenched his arm away from the other man's caress and drew almost viciously on the cigarette between his teeth.  
"No, you don't understand!" he said, almost snappishly.  
"I-" That hurt. Tom prided himself on being highly attuned to his beloved; this was like a smack to the face.  
"Remember that night Aidan fell from the roof? The night I- we- the night that started the rest of our lives?"  
"As if I could possibly forget."  
"That night, Richard told me I looked pensive. I said I had a funny feeling about it... Tom, I have a funny feeling about tonight as well. And I don't mean ha ha funny."  
“Ben…”  
“No, please, Tom!” Another draw on the fag. “I need you to believe me, please don’t get too chummy with that James guy. He’s not right. He’s got something going on, something we don’t know about and probably should- and maybe I am jealous, maybe I’m not dealing with it well because- well- I’ve never had anyone to be jealous about before, Tom, you know that. You’re my first in a lot of ways and I’m not used to relationships and I’m sorry, truly, if I’ve upset you and made you feel bad and I didn’t mean to, I just, I don’t want any more bad things to happen. Don’t you think we’ve had enough? Of the bad stuff? Tom?” imploringly.  
Tom let out a long, slow, thoughtful breath.  
“Yeah,” he said slowly, “I suppose we have. Come here, Ben.” He drew the other man into a tender embrace, during which he managed, quite skilfully, to insert his hands between Benedict’s jeans and boxers in a way that quite detracted from the initial seriousness of their conversation. Benedict relented, let himself be manoeuvred against the wall and kissed into oblivion, let Tom nuzzle his way down his body, which responded almost traitorously, and fell to his knees, nudged open his fly and mouthed him wetly through the front of now straining cotton underwear. Benedict gasped, let his head fall back, let Tom kiss him sloppily through the material.  
“I- uh- I didn’t expect it to go like this,” he admitted.  
Tom laughed, the chuckled reverberating through Benedict’s crotch in a series of pleasurable vibrations.  
“Oh, Ben,” he whispered, almost reverently, “you are so beautiful when you’re jealous. I don’t mean I’m going to deliberately provoke it, of course, but you’re just so feral, the way you strode over to James and I, I mean-” He freed the barman’s cock and kissed the tip, then swallowed it down in one easy motion. A few bobs of the head later, and he finished his sentence, “it just made me want to drag you up on stage and make sweet, frantic, filthy love to you in front of everyone. I wouldn’t be doing this for anyone else, either,” he assured the brunette. “Only you, Ben.”  
James barely saw Tom for the rest of the night, and Benedict spent it trying to persuade his dick to stop waving itself about and making a scene; Tom would see to it when they got home, but in the meantime, several sneaky trips to the bathroom were needed to get him through the next few hours of Tom’s whoreish gyrations up on that damn stage.

*** 

A few hours later, and most of the lads had gone. Noel was staying behind to lock up, and Richard, who had at last noticed the incongruous vegetable chained to his bar, had insisted that he take the cabbage with him. Noel tried to hate his employer, but found himself swallowed only with sorrow at his shortcomings in protecting the cabbage. He carried it carefully, respectfully, in both hands, and made his way down the lamp-lit road. A small noise from the other pavement attracted his attention, and he looked up at the sound of his name being called, hesitantly, but definitely his name.  
“Noel?”  
“Who is it? I’ve got no money on me, just a cabbage!” called Noel, as if that were any kind of warning to a potential mugger.  
“Cabbage!” came a delighted, disembodied voice. A child’s voice.  
From out of the gloom stepped the owner of the delighted little voice, an angelic looking child attached by the hand to someone Noel recognised- Misha, Jensen’s friend whom he’d met at the club. Jensen had eventually persuaded Misha to come and try one of Noel’s outlandish cocktails, and Misha had liked it, and they’d had a lovely little chat. Goodness knows where the man had collected this little cherub from, though.  
“This is West,” said Misha. “My son. Left him with a babysitter.”  
Noel was about to question the responsibility of this style of parenting, but West had questions of his own. Mainly consisting of:  
“Cabbage?” Cabbage, daddy?”  
Noel stared down at West, then from West to his father, then from the father back to the son. Silently and with a lifting of the heaviness in his heart, he grandly handed the cabbage to West, who beamed at him.  
“Cabbage!” he said firmly. “Come on, Daddy.”  
With one last meaningful exchange of glances between Noel and Misha, the duo departed, and the cabbage with them.  
“It’s gone to a better home now, it’s in a better place,” Noel told himself, and skipped all the way back to his home.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hospitals and police stations, Noel and Julian, and the grand entrance of Rupert Graves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer that none of the increasingly bizarre cast of this little adventure are mine.

“I miss you.”  
“I miss you too, you lanky bastard. Get well soon,” said Richard.  
“Why won’t you come and see me?”  
“I’m waiting to see the solicitor,” said Richard. “And I’m out of town all day. I’m busy as shit, Aidan. You know I’d be there if I could.” He let out a sigh. “Dean’s coming over later though.”  
“Good. I miss him, too,” said Aidan. “And I miss his arse.”  
“Oh, I see how it is,” said Richard, mock aggrieved.  
“I miss your arse too,” said Aidan, matter of factly. “And you being balls deep in mine. Mhmmm.”  
“Aidan Turner, I sincerely hope there’s no one else listening in on this!”  
“Ah, no. They moved me to a private room as soon as I came round proper, they needed the ICU bed for some other poor fucker. I’m lying here in the bloody dark, you’re my only entertainment.”  
“Oh?”  
“My eyes feel like they’re being extracted with a fork if anyone puts the light on,” he admitted, “and I’m having to hold this phone with both hands just so I don’t drop it. I feel all woozy and useless, Rich. I want you,” petulantly. “I want you and Deano to come and see me and love me and stop me being so bored.”  
“When you’re well, I will love you into the middle of next week,” promised Richard.  
“Now there’s an incentive I can get behind,” enthused the Irishman.  
“I was rather hoping I’d be behind you,” murmured Richard, and from the rustling at the other end of the phone, he could tell his words had had the desired effect. “Oh, you.”  
“Rich, can you blame me? I’m horny as fuck right now!” hissed Aidan. “And if I want to do anything to get myself off, I have to let go of this fucking phone.”  
“Do what you’ve gotta do,” Richard told him, “I’ll call back later. Solicitor’s ready to speak to me.”  
“Fuck you,” said Aidan affectionately, and rang off, slumping back into the gloom. His hand traced a path down to the inside of his thighs, but it didn’t feel right. He missed Dean and Richard; it was no good trying to jerk off with hands that wouldn’t grip properly. He kicked his feet pathetically and raged feebly at the landscape on the wall. It was a nice landscape, but he hated it as a matter of principle. Nothing was nice when he was in this state.   
He lay in the dark for a while, and his thoughts wandered. They wandered down a winding path alongside a stream, and in due course were far away from the need between his thighs. He was, in fact, just on the edge of a relatively peaceful sleep when he heard it.  
Sobbing.  
From out in the corridor? The next room?  
It couldn’t be very far away; it was muffled, as if the person responsible didn’t want anyone to hear, but was simply too overwhelmed to keep schtum. It tugged at Aidan’s heart strings- he’d been that person too many times to let it pass unnoticed now. He eased himself into a sitting position, and blinked in the shadows. A tentative attempt to climb out of bed sent sharp sparks of pain through his whole body, and he fell back, the feeling of blood pounding behind his eyes rendering him dizzy and nauseous. After a few minutes, he tried again, and this time, on hands and knees, with eyes pressed almost shut, allowing just enough light in that he could see his way to the door, he made it to the corridor beyond his room. A glance to his left yielded up an expanse of carpet and garish yellow wallpaper stretching to the toilets, the linen cupboard, and the lift to the geriatric ward. Looking to his right- with a slow, cautious twist of his head, because man, did that hurt! It felt like his nerves were burning themselves up!- he could see a figure approaching.   
It was a young man, but he wasn’t crying. He looked sad, sure, but kind of resigned. As he saw Aidan, he flinched, and turned off down another corridor. It was terribly mysterious. And didn’t solve the mystery of the sobbing.  
Aidan’s room was the last on the corridor, so if it came from any of the others, it would have to be the one next door to him. The room opposite was locked, and had a notice permitting entry only by staff, and saying that the caretaker’s office had now moved to Room 12 on Carrick. Aidan neither knew nor cared where Carrick or the caretaker were. He knocked softly on the door of the room next to his.   
The sobbing intensified.  
Well, he’d found the poor mite, anyway. Whoever they were.  
“Hello?” he croaked. Clearing his throat, he attempted to actually speak this time. “Hel-lo?”  
There was no reply, but Aidan was bored, and worried, and he hadn’t dragged himself out of bed with knives at the back of his eyes just to be ignored, so he went in regardless.  
There, in the bed, looking almost as white as the pillows against which he lay, was a thin, freckled, baby-faced fellow with what had presumably once been a fluffy quiff flopping into his eyes. He pushed the hair back to look at Aidan, and then shut his eyes as if in horror, but not before Aidan had seen that they were red raw with tears.  
“You’re Aidan! No. It can’t be you,” he whimpered. “It can’t be. Matt… It can’t… I’m dreaming.”  
“What’s the matter?”   
“Go away, I’m going to wake up in a minute, go away,” crooned the young man to himself, rolling his head from side to side. A jangle of metal could be heard as he moved. A glint of silver caught Aidan’s eye.  
“You’re handcuffed?” he gasped.  
“I’m meant to be under police guard, they think I’m a murderer,” whispered the boy. “They shot me as I was trying to get away.” He let out a shaky breath. “I never meant- never thought… Matt made me do it, he’s obsessed with you. I mean, I can see why, but I mean really obsessed. Any money we earn goes to him, and he spends all his time ranting about you, and-” He stopped, hiccoughing pitifully.  
“Matt Smith? You work for Matt?” Aidan was aghast.  
“Hardly willingly,” whispered the youth. “He’s an absolute…” A shudder wracked his thin body. “I’m so sorry, Aidan,” he said, turning his face away. The tears soaked the soft cotton of the pillow, and dampened his forelock as it tumbled back over his eyes. “None of us wanted this. I know that doesn’t make it any better.”  
“Listen,” blurted Aidan, “if I can help you, I will. I really will. I’ll put in a good word for you. What’s your name? Who else is working with you? Is Matt coming back?”  
“I expect he’s in hiding,” snuffled the boy. “Perhaps abroad. I wouldn’t dare speak to you if I thought he was in the same city.”  
“Your name?” pressed Aidan, whose head was starting to kill.  
“Eddie,” came the soft reply. He hiccupped. “Eddie Redmayne. And I am so, so sorry…”

*** 

Noel had lost Julian’s number. In fact, it was perfectly feasible he’d written it down in invisible ink, thinking it would be a nice secret to have, and then forgotten where he’d put it. Or, equally likely, he could have inked it onto the cabbage, which had now gone home with West and Misha.   
Basically, he didn’t have the fucking thing.  
“I don’t have the fucking thing!” he stormed.  
Martin joined him at the table at which he was consuming breakfast. It was a window table in Tennant’s Lounge, from whence they could watch people, and comment unfavourably on their attire. Martin and Noel both enjoyed this as much as each other.  
“Fucking what now?” he grouched.  
“Morning,” said Noel. “Ju- oh. Nothing.” He’d very nearly told Martin exactly what he’d wanted David not to tell Martin.  
“Suit your fucking self,” said Martin, amiably. “If it’s that copper’s number, why don’t you just go and see him? I heard Simm got kicked off the case, so you won’t feel like committing homicide from breathing the same air as him.”  
“Oh, David!” exclaimed Noel, huffily.  
“I managed not to tell him,” David said, “for about an hour and three quarters. And then I didn’t manage any more.”  
“We haven’t told Richard,” said Martin. “Go on, go and get the bugger.” Noel drained his cup, constructed a small and lopsided swan from the napkin, and skipped out the door. David was about to yell at him for leaving without paying, when he found the exact change tucked between the napkin-swan’s wings. He chuckled.  
“Bless his fluffy little heart,” he said, as Noel sprang with far too much enthusiasm onto a bus, which sailed off round the corner and deposited him outside the police station. He alighted from the bus, and ascended the stone steps to the door three at a time, just because he had the legs for it, and Julian, watching from a second floor window, was suitably impressed.  
The door slid open, and everyone stared at Noel. Noel was used to it, and curtseyed, which is an impressive thing for any man in jeans as tight as Noel’s invariably were.  
“I’m looking for Sergeant Barratt?” he said, to the room in general.  
“Second floor,” said someone, “try Room 33.”

***

The phone call came through just as Tom was emerging from the shower. Ben was still curled up like an oversized kitten on the other side of Tom’s bed, and he dozily opened one eye to see if Tom was getting the phone, or if he should do it himself. Tom darted to pick it up, and his fluffy white towel slid gracefully to the floor. Dozy no longer, Benedict sat up, scooted to the edge of the bed, and pulled Tom down by those pointy little hipbones to sit beside him.  
“Oof,” said Tom. “Hello?” He went slightly pink. “Oh, no, nothing to do with you, I just- sat down rather suddenly. What can I do for you?”  
After a few moments, he said goodbye and hung up.  
“Who and what?” asked Benedict, in between biting little red marks up Tom’s shoulder and along his neck.  
“You’re such a distraction,” said Tom, and pinned him down, entirely naked and shameless. Benedict squirmed just enough to give Tom the friction he needed to get half-hard. “What am I going to do with you, Benedict Cumberbatch?”  
“Hopefully, something with your dick,” Benedict. “Who was that on the phone?”  
“Police,” said Tom, nuzzling Benedict’s neck lovingly. “Simm’s off the case, his replacement wants to ask us a few things. Preliminary stuff, nothing major I shouldn’t think.”  
“Oh,” said Benedict. “Nothing urgent then?”  
“No.”  
“Nothing we can’t delay until…?”  
“Until?”  
“Until you’ve put that raging hard on of yours to good use,” laughed Ben. That was the kind of thing Tom couldn’t, and didn’t want to, refuse.  
They left the house three hours and another shower later, arms linked, eyes for only one another.

*** 

Sashaying along the corridor, Noel found himself outside Room 33. He knocked, was called in, and obliged. There sat Julian, chewing the end of a biro and looking glumly at a flickering LCD screen on his desk. He raised mournful eyes to Noel, recognised him, and beamed. He sprang up to greet him, and kicked over the bin by accident.   
“Oh, bollocks,” he said, sounding entirely unbothered by it. He tried to kick it upright, but got his foot wedged in it. Noel grinned.  
“That was clever,” he said, and crouched down to work the bin from Julian’s foot; by the time he stood up, and said, in a subdued, soft voice, “hello, Julian”, he knew he was irretrievably and hopelessly in love with the man.  
“It’s good to see you again,” said Julian. “I’m so sorry about cancelling. Really, I can’t forgive myself. Can we try again?”  
“I wouldn’t hear of anything else,” said Noel grandly.  
“Good, then let me take you out for lunch, if you’re not busy? I know you work nights, and my lunch break starts in ten. Oh, and while you’re here, Noel, the new DI wants to speak to everyone connected to the Smith case. That includes you.”  
“New DI? So old fartface got the boot?”  
“He certainly did.”  
“Did he sit on any of those pins first, though?” hopefully. A lazy smile washed like a mischievous wave across Julian’s face.  
“He certainly did,” he repeated, and, with a hand in the small of Noel’s back, propelled him through the door into an adjoining office. In this room there stood, around a desk, Richard and Dean, and Tom and Benedict (each couple gently entwined) and at the desk sat a tanned, silver haired gentleman of indeterminate age but undeniable aesthetic pleasantness.   
He raised his eyes as Julian and Noel entered, and smiled warmly.  
“Hello,” said Noel, as if he were meeting Julian’s parents for the first time. “I’m Noel. Who are you?”  
The man pushed back his chair and stood, extending a hand.  
“I’m DI Rupert Graves,” he said, “and this is my division now.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Men in lingerie! John Barrowman in a nurse's outfit! And some plot, just for good measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this has taken so long to put up, if anyone still cares about this fic then hooray, if not I understand completely. 
> 
> School is out of the way, and so I also finally made a Tumblr. I'm Kilimouse on Tumblr, too. Come and say hi, I am still finding my way around the site!

“Are you going to finish that tiramisu?”  
“Why? Do you want it?”  
“Yes, but I’d also like the tiramisu.”  
Julian’s eyes widened, and he chuckled.  
“You’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?” he said affectionately, pushing the remainder of his dessert towards his date. Noel’s face lit up, not only like a child’s at Christmas, but rather like the whole fucking Christmas tree itself, and he set to work with his spoon. Delight spread across his face, and his lashes fluttered against his skin as his eyes closed in pleasure, and the sight gave Julian rather naughty thoughts. Noel clearly, really liked tiramisu. This knowledge could be really rather useful, pondered Julian, if they were to pursue a relationship.  
Finally, Noel opened his eyes again and actually remembered to answer him.  
“A handful? Well, now…” he said with a wink, and dropped tiramisu on his collar. “Oh, pisstits. Now look what you made me do.”  
“Me?”  
“Well, it’s your beautiful face I was staring at,” said Noel, aggrieved, and proceeded to remove his shirt at the table, without a hint of shame.  
Julian glanced around, but it was a restaurant frequented by several of Richard’s employees, and nobody batted an eyelid. Noel preened, catlike, and Julian didn’t know where to look.  
“You know, it’s a shame you’ve got to go back to work this afternoon,” mused Noel. “I mean, I’ve already started undressing, it seems a shame to waste the opportunity…”

***

Dean, directed by an absolute hulk of a nurse, found his way at last to Aidan’s room, passing, as he walked in, a bored looking police officer sitting outside the next room along.  
“Thanks,” he said to the nurse, glancing at her name tag, “Sister Barrowman. I won’t stay too long.”  
He closed the door gently behind him so as to not wake Aidan, but as soon as the Irishman heard his soft footfall, his eyes opened and he reached out a hand to grasp loosely at the blonde’s wrist.  
“Dean!” urgently.  
“Yes, that’s me. Hello, Aidan. Are you alright?”  
“I’m fine, why wouldn’t I be fine?”  
“You have viral encephalitis,” pointed out Dean, who had only just learnt to pronounce the word, and silently congratulated himself. “You almost died, Aid.”  
“Yes, well, thank you for that reminder,” sniffed Aidan. “But right now, we have more important things to deal with.”  
“Oh?”  
“They’re going to charge Eddie with murder.”  
“Who?”  
“Eddie.”  
“Who’s Eddie? Do I need to be jealous?”  
“No, he’s a rent boy and Matt Smith takes all the money he earns in order to chase me,” croaked Aidan, letting his fingers twine loosely round Dean’s. “There is literally nothing you could envy about that poor bastard’s life, Deano.”  
Suitably chastened, Dean leaned down to gently press a kiss to Aidan’s lips.  
“I’m sorry, Aid,” he said. “I don’t mean to be facetious. What do you want me to do?”

*** 

“He’s nice, isn’t he?” asked Tom. He stood aside on the riverside path, for an elderly man to pass by, and took Benedict’s arm. The sun shone down on the happy couple, and there were enough admiring glances that Benedict began to feel that he was equally attractive as his angelic other half, rather than just his P.A, or any other hanger-on. It was easy enough to know Tom loved him and found him irresistible when they were at home, curled up and intimate, but out in the real world… the judgemental world… the world in which people like Andrew fucked you over and left you like the trash they thought you were…  
“Ben? Baby?”  
A hand sliding beneath the cuff of his coat, soft against the sensitive skin of his inner wrist, eased him back into the loving aura of Tom Hiddleston, enveloping them both like a particularly encouraging bubblegum bubble. A pink one, Ben thought idly. Tom would look nice in pink. His mind supplied the image of Tom in a delicate rose-hued two-piece… with a nice deep pink lipstick to set off his eyes… Almost red. Tom in red. Yes. Oh.  
“Benedict?” Tom repeated, shaking his arm. “Darling, you’re terribly distracted today. I asked you if you thought he was nice.”  
“Who, DI Graves? Yeah, I suppose he is.”  
There was a pause, and then Tom chuckled wickedly.  
“Would you?”  
“No.” There was no hesitation.  
“No?” Tom’s hand snaked around his waist, dragged him in for a kiss. Benedict giggled like a schoolboy- the sad thing is, he’d never giggled like that in his schoolboy days, but we won’t dwell on it, because that part of his story is over with now- and wrapped his arms around Tom in response. A hint of tongue and the softest nip on Tom’s lower lip, and they broke apart to cheers from those along the river bank.  
“Well, he’s not you,” said Ben sweetly.  
“You’re the perfect gentleman,” murmured Tom.  
“The perfect gentleman?”  
“Yes…”  
“Can the perfect gentleman ask a favour?”  
“Always.”  
“You know, on the first date we had, I said I had a dream? Where you- you were…ahem. In red lace knickers… And I- I liked it.”  
“You dreamt I was getting it on with Dean,” Tom said, gently teasing.  
“Ignore that bit,” Benedict said. “Focus on the first bit. This isn’t something I’ve ever considered asking before, Tom. It… It means a lot to me.”  
“You want me to wear lace? I’ll buy a job lot of the stuff, and we won’t leave the bedroom for days.”  
Benedict drew in a long breath, and his eyes flared dark with arousal.  
“There’s a discreet little place down Market Street,” he breathed, tracing Tom’s jaw with one gentle fingertip.  
“Wow. You’ve given this some thought, haven’t you?”  
“I- yes. And I know you’ll look positively edible in scarlet lace.”  
“I love you, Benedict Cumberbatch, but the things you say… Well, they really do give me the most inappropriately timed erections.”

*** 

Colin sat on the wall of the hospital gardens, and dragged on the last cigarette in his packet. He couldn’t afford any more, and he didn’t usually smoke anyway, but since Bradley… He drew a shaky breath, and waited for Dean to leave the hospital. The sun glinting from the hospital’s windows made him blink, and look away, and when he glanced up he thought for a moment he saw Bradley across the side of the road. After that, the tears wouldn’t stop tumbling, shedding like the pieces of his heart.  
“You’re still here?”  
Colin started.  
“I thought you’d be well away,” said Dean, sinking down beside him. “Police sniffing round, and all.”  
“I’ve got nowhere to go,” said Colin. “And I- someone’s got to organise Bradley’s funeral.”  
“If you do that, they’ll connect you to Matt! You can’t!” exclaimed Dean, who was inclined to be generous to the young man, and all Matt’s other poor pawns. They were, after all, only a foot’s slip away from being Aidan. If he hadn’t fallen into Tom’s lap…  
“I have to, they’ll connect me to him sooner or later anyway,” sighed Colin, passing a hand across his pale face. “I’m a wanted man, Dean. I’ve done things I should have said no to, I’ve… I killed people. Matt just…” His voice cracked, and Dean found himself with a sudden damp patch on his shoulder from where Colin shook and sobbed into his shirt. “I’m sorry, I don’t expect you to forgive me.”  
“There’s nothing to forgive. Aidan’s alive, and Ben and Tom escaped safely,” Dean said gently.  
“That wasn’t me, though; that was Matt’s right hand man. Other Mat. He’s basically Matt’s minder,” sniffed Colin. “He’s saved my arse more times than I care to remember. He’s taken Matt off somewhere. Out of the way of the law.”  
“He’s not that good a guy then,” snorted Dean. “Colin, you look wrecked. Have you eaten?”  
“No.”  
“Let me get you-”  
“Dean, don’t.”  
“Colin, I can’t just…” Colin silenced him with a shake of his head.  
“I’m done,” he said quietly. “I’m sending Bradley off, and as soon as your Aidan’s safely back home, I’m turning myself in, unless they nab me beforehand.”  
Dean gazed at the floor, wondering.  
“What are you still doing here, then?” he asked. “Other than Bradley, I mean. You’ve been here ever since Aidan has.”  
“What am I doing now, you mean?”  
“Yeah, I mean I know Matt wanted you to tamper with the life support…”  
“Now,” said Colin, “I’m doing penance. I’m saving a life, and trying to make up for the two I took, because I was a coward. That’s why Bradley’s gone, Dean. Karma. It’s because of me. It’s my fault.”

*** 

The door clicked discreetly shut behind the giggling couple, and from the red velvet curtains hanging down the middle of the furthest half of the store emerged a smiling, twinkly eyed man. Seeing he had customers, he opened his mouth for standard greeting, but recognition turned his words to an excited yelp, and he rushed forward, into the square of light from the high-up window.  
“Tom! Benedict!” came the Northern Irish tones. He was overjoyed. “And quite clearly a couple! Oh, that’s marvellous! Richard’s little schemes worked out then?” He enveloped both men in a warm hug, and then gently pushed them back to regard them both with a glowing mixture of pride and affection, much like a long-lost uncle.  
“Jimmy,” Tom said, amazement and delight mingling in his voice, “what are you doing here?”  
“I run it, Tommy. I only retired from stripping, lad, I didn’t wave goodbye to flamboyance altogether! Of course I was going to open a men’s lingerie store, what else would I do?”  
“We had no idea!” said Benedict.  
“Oh, well, you’re always welcome,” said James Nesbitt, and waved expansively to the rows and racks of luscious lace and sumptuous silk surrounding them. “And consider this an introductory offer, a third off everything you buy today. Also, if you want, I’ll nip out for a bit and lock up, so you’ve got some privacy. There’s supplies in the cupboard by the dressing room,” he added with a wink. Benedict nervously laughed, a little bewildered at the audacity of it all, a little bit giddy with the knowledge that James was actively encouraging them to have sex in his changing room. “Just, if you do happen to get semen on something, you really ought to buy it,” he said, solemnly, and disappeared out to the stockroom.  
“Well,” said Tom, looking almost as breathless and overwhelmed as Benedict was. “Shall we get started? You did say red, didn’t you? Because look at this one, look, I know it’s silk but I really do think- mmf!”  
His boyfriend had swept up the set in question, and proceeded to kiss all of Tom’s practicalities all the way down his oesophagus, leaving him dazed, and sporting yet another glorious hard-on.  
“The silk one’s fine,” growled Benedict, and manhandled the fair haired man into the changing rooms, dragging the heavy velvet curtain closed behind them. His fingers were everywhere, dipping into Tom’s clothes, skittering across his chest, down his abdomen, and into his pants, where they wrapped themselves with sinful warmth and smoothness around Tom’s weeping erection and stroked it lovingly, but almost frantically, smearing Tom’s pre-come all over his length and dragging his pants and trousers down with his other hand. Tom made an animalistic noise in the back of his throat as the soft material rubbed teasingly down his thighs, and Ben’s grip on his cock tightened, fist-fucking him harder, faster, but still on the wrong side of “enough”.  
“I’m not gonna last long,” panted Tom, wriggling in Benedict’s grip. “Fucking harder, Ben, do it harder, that’s it- uh. Oh! Oh, y-y-ye-esss. FUCK! Ben, ah, Ben please, I’m not gonna last, do you want me to get into these knickers or not?”  
“Can’t wait,” hissed Benedict, and dropped to his knees. “The mental image of you all dolled up in them is going to have to do for now… all that silk, those little garters, that fucking bra, Tom, I’m gonna get you on your back, spread out on the bed for me. I’m going to kiss you like it’s the first time, going to rub my cock all over your chest while you’re wearing the bra, gonna mess up that expensive silk, stain it with my pre-come, I’m going to tease you through the knickers until you’ve soaked them and you’re so hard with needing me that they’re nearly bursting at the fucking seams, OH, you’re so fucking big, Tom, and so hard for me.” He descended into incoherent noises, sounds of indescribable lust, love and appreciation all spilling forth as he closed his lips round the shining head of Tom’s straining erection, his cheeks hollowing as he sank his face down on the large member, eyes flickering closed in bliss. Tom’s head flung backwards and he tried not to fuck up into Benedict’s mouth, instead running his hands along Benedict’s face, across his hollowed cheeks where he could almost feel his hard flesh through Ben’s skin.  
“I can feel it… I- oh!” His voice was a shaking wreck. “Fuck, Ben. Your fucking mouth. Such perfect lips for sucking me off, I- ah- I love you so much, Ben, so perfect.” He caressed Benedict’s cheekbone, ran his finger along Benedict’s lower lip as it rubbed wetly along the ridged underside of his cock. “You’re so perfect,” he whispered, and spurted hotly into the loving mouth around him; Ben gasped, swallowed greedily around him, and pulled off with a wet pop. He nuzzled his face adoringly into Tom’s crotch, his nose brushing Tom’s balls, and he laughed breathlessly.  
“I’ve never been so adventurous,” he managed at last, and brought Tom down to sit on the plushly carpeted floor of the changing room, head on Tom’s shoulder. “Did we manage not to get mess on the merchandise?” he enquired idly. Tom scrabbled for the scattered lingerie, held it up between thumb and forefinger.  
“Looks pretty clean,” he reported.  
“But we’re still buying it anyway?”  
“Naturally,” said Tom softly, and slipped his hand between Benedict’s thighs, which fell apart invitingly. Tom’s long, slim fingers danced teasingly across Benedict’s zipper, sliding it down and reaching softly inside, stroking one fingertip along Benedict’s thickening length and back up again, chuckling and biting Ben’s ear as his boyfriend’s mouth fell open and his breath hitched. “I mean, why would I pass up on an opportunity to drive you” he bit Ben’s neck “absolutely” softly squeezing Ben through his cotton briefs “fucking” swipe of tongue under Benedict’s ear “maaaad”.  
“You don’t have to try very hard,” shuddered Benedict. “I think it’s a- a natural talent. Oh. Oh, that’s nice. Mmmm, that’s good, oh To-oooom…”  
“Make all the noise you want, darling,” said Tom, sliding down so that he was lying with his legs kicked out beneath the velvet curtain, face nestled between Benedict’s legs. He lapped at the tip of his dick, rubbing teasing little circles on his balls. Benedict mewled, shivered, and gasped Tom’s name, and the circles and the lapping both sped up. “James won’t care, James won’t even hear, he went out. Make all the noise you need, baby. Moan for me, yeah? Go on, baby. Groan for me, whimper, Ben.” Benedict didn’t hold back, and Tom shuddered with him as his thighs quivered and his head thrashed from side to side. He suddenly went taut, let out a low, guttural groan, and gently eased Tom’s mouth from his cock.  
“Tom, I-”  
“What?”  
“Can I come on your face?”  
Tom closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath.  
“Yes,” he murmured. “Come for me, Ben. Come on me. Mark me.” His hand set to work finishing Ben off, working the slippery foreskin back and smiling beatifically in anticipation of his lover’s climax, which, when it came, spurted hot and white across his cheek, down his chin and dribbled slowly down the side of his neck as he turned his face aside just before the last spurt came forth. “That was good,” he said, and Ben kissed his own seed away from Tom’s skin.  
“That was amazing,” Ben clarified with a smile.  
“You’re amazing,” said Tom.  
“Oh, you,” grinned Benedict. “I’m blushing.” Suck on that, Andrew, he thought gleefully. Bet you never thought I’d get to do things like this, you little rat.  
“We should go and pay,” suggested Tom, so they did. As James was bagging their purchases in a classy looking, un-labelled shiny black bag, the door clicked open and closed again, and they turned to see it had admitted a tall, broad, undeniably masculine looking man with the whitest teeth in human history. A bag slung over his shoulder seemed to contain a nurse’s uniform, poking out he top.  
“Afternoon, John,” said James. John Barrowman winked at him, shamelessly ogled the happy couple, and slipped wordlessly into the corsets section with a knowing smile.

*** 

Matt was lying on the most uncomfortable motel bed known to humankind. Mat sat on the windowsill, staring glumly through the grimy grey glass onto an equally grimy grey street. They had evaded capture, they were clear of the police- and Matt had been keeping phone tabs on his minions. He still had access to the surveillance he’d put in place, and could access it from his laptop, on which he had carefully disabled the GPS beforehand, but one thing was bothering him.  
Well, no. There were many things that bothered Matt; he was quite possibly clinically insane, but right now what bothered him was the news reporter on the flickering television screen, the one who was solemnly relaying that Eddie Redmayne was well on the way to recovery from his gunshot wound and would soon be talking to police.  
“I’ll have him killed,” said Matt.  
“You can’t,” said Mat.  
“I can.”  
“We’re in France, Matt. It’s not like you can just hop into a cab and tootle back to the city to kick your employees into shape. You have to trust them.”  
“Trust? When the fuck has that ever done anyone any good?” spat Matt, clawing furiously at the scratchy brown sofa on which he lay. Arthur had trusted people. Arthur had told him people were the Smarties on the cake of life; Matt had laughed, poked him, and said he was sentimental, but the analogy had stayed with him ever since. He never ate Smarties after Arthur’s accident, and he never trusted people. “If that little shit Morgan squeals, I will personally remove his testicles.”  
Mat blanched, and drew his legs together, discreetly. He chose to say no more.

*** 

 

“They’re letting me go home soon!” said Aidan joyfully. The sun was sinking, and Richard had rushed in just before visiting hours ended, managing to squeeze in a quick evening visit. “They said as long as I wear these bloody dark glasses when I need to, I’ll be fine. You’ll look after me, anyway,” he said, a trifle smugly. “You always do. You’re the best, Richard.”  
“Cupboard love,” smiled Richard fondly, who had brought chocolate, and was now watching Aidan enthusiastically licking the remnant from his long, sinful fingers with flickering eyes that promised a night of wild abandon as soon as he was able- if not before. Richard didn’t fancy his chances at resisting a sex-starved Aidan, encephalitis or no encephalitis. He raised his eyebrow. “But that’s great, anyway. I’ve missed you, you know.”  
“I know.”  
“Smug little shit,” smiled Richard, and kissed him.  
Outside in the street, Colin hunched down in the shadow of a disused Post Office doorway, and fell into a restless sleep in which Bradley and Matt danced in hypnotic circles about him as he tried, though no words would come out, to confess his crimes to a marching line of stony-faced police officers, who looked, incidentally, an awful lot like Aidan Turner.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vibrators and reunion Aidean sex, followed by the tiniest bit of actual plot in the last scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The vibrator in question is based on the OhMiBod range, which you can plug into your iPod and which will vibrate according to the beat of your music. As yet, there's not a prostate stimulator one, so I made it up. I decided to make James' friend the plumber's mate be Frank Turner, the singer, because I can and because I adore him, even though this is meant to be an actor RPF. (And he won't b in it much anyway.)

The first thing Aidan did when Richard got him home was collapse on Richard’s bed with a melodramatic sigh, flinging out his arms and nuzzling his nose into the duvet.  
“It smells like home,” was his appraisal. Richard sank down into the mattress beside him, and carded a hand through the Irishman’s messy hair. “And sex. Just how much did I miss out on, Richard? Tell me true.”  
“Your hair’s a mess,” said Richard, instead. “Go on, into the bathroom with you.”  
Aidan thrust out his lower lip in a magnificent and much-missed pout.  
“Don’t look at me like that, of course I’m coming with you,” said Richard with a smile, and ushered him, with the warm hands Aidan had greatly missed during uncomfortable nights in a chemically-scented hospital room, gently resting on his hips. Aidan nudged the door open and his face split into the widest grin; Dean was perched jauntily on the gleaming edge of the bath tub, inspecting his nails with an exaggerated air of casualness.  
“Oh,” he said, glancing up, “fancy seeing you here!”  
“Dean!”  
“Hello, gorgeous,” smiled that man, rising from his seat on the edge of the bath. Richard’s hands remained loosely resting on Aidan’s hips, and Dean’s moved lovingly up his chest, picking at the top button of the shirt obscuring the lean torso. He loosened the button with a smile, following suit with the other eight, revealing the tanned, muscled, if skinnier, torso he had longed for during Aidan’s incapacitation. “Bloody hell, it’s good to have you back.” He pressed a chaste kiss to Aidan’s mouth, smoothing one hand through the dark hair on Aidan’s chest. Aidan whined in the back of his throat, and reached to card his fingers through Dean’s hair. “No, don’t do anything. Let me- let us make it good for you.”  
Richard’s hands were on the soft curve of Aidan’s backside now, massaging him lovingly through the soft, stretchy denim. He noted with a pang of sadness that there was less there than there had been before Aidan got sick, and wasn’t sure if he was more sad that Aidan hadn’t been eating well, or that there was now less butt for him to attach himself to. He did love Aidan’s arse; the more of it the better. He made up his mind to feed the lad up.  
Smiling at Dean over the Irishman’s shoulder, he undid the skinny leather belt Aidan wore, and eased it out of the loops, tossing it to the floor and working the jeans themselves down Aidan’s thighs.  
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, nosing at Aidan’s ear. Aidan shuddered with pleasure. “You feel so tense, Aid. My poor baby.” Dean took over, wordlessly, working on Aidan’s jeans while Richard smoothed his hands up his back, pressing and kneading the knots beneath Aidan’s olive skin. He reached his shoulders, and Aidan sank to his knees under the pleasure and pressure of the touch, head falling forwards, as if exhausted. Dean crouched down beside him and coaxed one foot, then the second, out of the denim, and Aidan almost fell as his centre of balance wobbled. Richard’s hands, back on his shoulder, grounded him, steadied him, made him want to stay there, right where he was, for ever.  
Dean had other ideas, and was now adding to the half-filled bath tub, holding his hand beneath the hot tap as if testing the water for a baby. Satisfied when the foamy water reached the two-thirds mark, he twisted the tap off and turned to Aidan, rolling up his sleeves.  
“Come on, into the bath,” he said, and Aidan didn’t resist as both his lovers manhandled him over the side and into the bath’s soapy, wet embrace. He emitted a small, pleasurable noise, and wiggled his toes, and his head fell back, hitting the bath’s edge with a dull thud.  
“Whoa, no, no be careful!” said Richard, alarmed, and slid one forearm under Aidan’s neck, propping him up. “It’s a good job you have such a thick head of hair on you, Aidan,” he smiled.  
“And a thick skull,” said Dean, drizzling shampoo into the palm of one hand. Richard gave him a reproachful look conveyed mainly through the incremental rise of his expressive brows. “Aw, don’t give me that look, Rich. He’s fine, we’ve got him.”  
“I am still here, you know,” groused Aidan, closing his eyes.  
“Yes, and you’re downright beautiful,” agreed Dean. “Lean forward a tad, you lazy so and so, or this will end up right in your face.” Aidan obliged, removing the need for Richard’s supportive forearm, at which point the older man stood up, rolled his shoulders, which resulted in a cracking sound and a wince, and said he’d leave them to it while he went down to make drinks.  
“Coffee sort of drinks?” asked Aidan, suddenly waking up. “Or champagne sort of drinks?”  
“Don’t push your luck,” growled Richard. “You’ll have whatever’s in the house and you’ll damn well appreciate it.” He hadn’t done a decent shop in ages, but he made a mental note that if champagne was what it took to make Aidan feel sufficiently appreciated, then champagne he would damn well buy!  
By the time he had found the coffee, boiled the water and combined both in three matching coffee cups, and carried the tray upstairs, a good many minutes had passed, and Dean had not been idle. Later, he would say that it was entirely Aidan’s fault- which was true in a way, no one could resist Aidan, and no one had touched him for far too long- but at the point Richard walked in, he wasn’t really capable of coherence.

***

The moment Richard had left, Dean had found himself half dragged into the soapy water by an Aidan who had seemingly been hiding the light of his recovery under a bushel. Dean’s eyes and mouth flew comically, simultaneously wide, and he squawked.  
“Are you ok?” he spluttered, thinking Aidan was having a seizure, and releasing the flannel he’d been gently lathering him with. It floated gracefully along on the splash Aidan had made, and settled itself over his rapidly rising dick.   
“I’m not ok,” said Aidan.  
“Oh fuck, Aidan, they let you go home too soon didn’t they? Stay there, baby, stay calm, I’ll call Richard-”  
“No, you clot, I’m not ok because I haven’t been fucking touched , I haven’t been fucked, I’m just about mad with it,” gritted Aidan, “look at me. LOOK, Dean,” he gestured at his flannel-bearing erection in a thoroughly aggrieved manner, “and Richard’s all very well and lovely playing the caring older man, it suits him, but he won’t shag me and if you don’t, I am going to tie you up and impale myself on you. You think I’m joking? I’m fucking not joking. Don’t give me that face, Dean O’Gorman, pass us the towel and get that soap off the floor or one of us will be back in the hospital.” Dean was dumbstruck, and did nothing. “Fucking move!” Aidan all but screamed. “Oh, don’t bother with the towel,” and then he was rearing up like a handsome and very aroused Kraken, and stepping purposefully over the side of the bath. He leant against the cupboard in which their police uniforms were still secreted, chuckled, and shook his head like a dog. Water flew in warm droplets across the room, several catching Dean in the eye. By the time he’d blinked furiously and scrubbed at it with the back of his hand, Aidan was already back in the bedroom and sprawling out like a cheap whore on Richard’s luxurious bed.  
“Aidan…”  
“Deaaaaan…”  
“Aidan, I-”  
“Really need it,” Aidan supplied helpfully, and wiggled his hips. “Stop staring, you’re wasting time. Where’s the lube? Why’s there never any bloody lube when you need it?”  
“Here.” Dean finally regained control of his limbs, and fetched the bottle in question, but then all his abilities again faded away in awe and a burst of extreme arousal as Aidan drizzled the stuff liberally over his own hand and started to finger himself open right there, the other hand working over his cock. His head lolled from side to side in obscene delight. One finger seemed to be a mere feather touch, so soon was he adding a second, the digits disappearing into the pinkness of his hole with fervour. He rolled slightly onto his side, giving Dean quite the front row viewing, and Dean inhaled far more air than he expected to, and proceeded to choke on it. The noise made Aidan twitch, probably knowing full well his shameless display was the cause, and he writhed more, moaned more, breathed that bit harder as he added a seemingly impossible third finger without hesitation.  
“OH that’s good. UH. Unnnngh.”  
Dean sank down on the bed beside him, ran a hand through his wet hair.  
“You look unbelievable,” he croaked, one hand down his own pants.  
“Thank you,” Aidan managed, and they locked eyes momentarily. “Please Dean. I’m begging you, just stick something in me.”  
“Something? Anything?” Dean somehow managed to sound playful. He wasn’t sure how.  
“Don’t be a wanker,” moaned Aidan.  
“No, no I just had an idea,” said Dean, once his head had won his dick for control of his thought processes. “I bought a thing. Um. Quite a nice thing, actually. A while ago. I sort of smuggled it into the house, hoping one day you and Rich would let me try it out on you.”  
“I’ll take anything,” Aidan uttered, and rocked back on his own hand. It looked like it hurt him. “Just get the fuck on with it!”  
Dean brought out the contraption and looked at it for a moment, not quite believing he’d actually get to use it.   
“One condition,” he said, straddling Aidan’s wildly thrusting hips and pinning him down against the bed, trapping his hand beneath his desperate body.  
“ANYTHING!”  
“I get to be in total control.”  
“Yes yes YES,” Aidan groaned, his free hand frantically jerking at his cock, covering his fingers with his own pre-come and reaching for Dean’s mouth, which opened obligingly, his one concession to this little scene. Dean licked each finger clean with careful attention, and Aidan’s cock dribbled more pre-come at the sight, and he almost blacked out. When Dean slipped the headphones into each of Aidan’s ears, his eyes flew open and registered bewilderment.  
“De-”  
“Shush shush shush,” Dean murmured, holding his head still. “Close your eyes again. You can keep touching yourself, keep stroking your cock but don’t you dare come. That’s it. Hold it off, hold yourself tight until I say so. Now give us your other hand.” He moved enough to allow Aidan to remove his fingers from himself and wipe them off, before stripping out of his shirt and bringing the Irishman’s long legs up to loop over his shoulders, hushing any protest about his trousers still being in place. “My rules, remember,” he growled.  
“Y-es, sir,” Aidan croaked, and shuddered.  
Dean switched on the ipod, which was connected to the vibrator he’d bought on a whim, having seen it advertised on a bit of the internet he hadn’t really experienced before, and the soft beat of “Fix You” made its way into Aidan’s ear drums. A faint buzzing also started, but Aidan couldn’t hear that, had no idea what else was happening until the vibrator’s tip nudged at his fluttering pink hole and insistently edged its way inside. His whole body tensed, and his lips parted in a shocked, overwhelmed moaning mewl. Dean let out a breathy laugh of delight, and worked the rest of the vibrator inside, his hand firmly gripping the base but not gracing Aidan with any more movement than the vibrations themselves provided. He thought Aidan might be getting a bit too used to Coldplay, and shuffled the songs on the ipod, at which point Fall Out Boy started hammering into Aidan’s prostate and within seconds he was screaming obscenities and trying furiously to get Dean to let him come, his hands twitching around his red, straining dick and pre-come practically cascading down his own body and smearing on Dean’s. It was the screaming that made Richard run up the stairs, balancing the coffee tray like the talented motherfucker he happened to be, although he couldn’t help from spilling (the coffee, that is) when he saw what Dean was doing to Aidan. His own cock stirred immediately, and he tried to be cross, because Aidan was supposed to be recuperating, but he just ended up being immensely turned on by the sight of the Irish boy, ever the slut, flat on his back with his legs up and good fucking grief what was Dean shoving in him this time?  
“What the fuck…”  
“Oh shit. RICH!”   
That was it, Aidan was incapable of holding on any longer, and Dean, grinning wickedly even as sweat trickled down his face, his neck, from every pore in his flushed body, switched the track on the ipod to Skrillex, (something he’d never had use nor reason for beforehand)and whispered “come for me” in the shell of Aidan’s ear, even as Aidan started to spill without permission.   
From that day, their music taste altered just a little, and only Richard ever knew why.

*** 

Blissfully unaware of the sexual escapades of their employer and his boyfriends, Benedict and Tom spent a lazy day wrapped round each other. In the afternoon, they managed to disentangle themselves long enough to get out of the house and into a particularly quaint little gastro pub that had a half price cocktails promotion. Truth be told, when Tom had seen the advert, it was merely the word “cock” that caught his attention, but it seemed like a good enough offer to take ben out for.  
“My treat,” he insisted, and Benedict was so taken up with the pleasurable sensation of Tom’s pearly whites nibbling most distractingly at his neck that he couldn’t quite muster up a protest. “Come on, let’s get those buttons done up,” he said, working on Benedict’s shirt, rumpled from a day of careless caresses. “Or you’ll look so indecent I’ll have to ravish you on the tabletop.”  
“I wouldn’t actually mind…”  
“I think the proprietor might,” Tom said ruefully. “Come along you, get your coat. I’ll call ahead and reserve a table for us.” He did, and they made their way leisurely through the winding roads, not bothering to take a taxi because the air was cool and fresh, and the exercise, after being inside all day, would do them no end of good. A stripper does, after all, have to maintain a certain level of aesthetic delightfulness.   
They reached the pub fifteen minutes before their reservation, and stood outside under the old fashioned lantern that illuminated the doorway and gave a welcoming glow, as if inviting them into a fairytale. In the flickering light, the brick of the building glowed a beautiful hue, much like gingerbread. Benedict, plagued with insecurities and the worries of every happy moment in his life being dashed by the proverbial wicked witch, hoped the similarities with gingerbread houses and fairytales ended right there, but was inclined to fret anyway.  
“Darling, you’ve gone all tense and maudlin again,” purred Tom. “Don’t let’s spoil a beautiful day like this. And your beautiful face too. Don’t spoil that either. Here, smile for me!” and he wound his arms round Ben’s neck, bringing his face in for the sweetest, softest kiss that left ben beaming beatifically in its wake. “That’s much better. Much more like it.”

*** 

“Don’t worry about it,” said the young man, as a miserable looking James hunched down in his chair and tried to hide his entire body behind a beer glass. “I just finished a job up at that mansion, we installed an indoor pool, so if you’ll pardon the pun I’m practically swimming in cash at the moment. Wouldn’t dream of making you pay, mate. How’s the new career going?”  
“Eh,” said James, with a noncommittal shrug. “It’s a learning curve.”  
“I bet,” said Frank. “Still, you’re liking it? Aren’t you?”  
“I suppose so,” said James. “Sometimes I wish I’d never got that stupid degree though, I’m not making enough to pay off any more of my student loan than I was beforehand, and a couple of my colleagues are…” he paused to drain the rest of his drink, “cagey.”  
“Kinky,” said Frank.  
“No, I mean cagey like tetchy, as in, uptight, keeping stuff back. Except Tom, Tom’s nice.”  
“Well they are strippers, James. I expect they’ve all got dark pasts,” Frank replied, sensibly. “You’ll get used to it, man. You’ll have a whale of a time, and there’s me stuck as an electrician’s sidekick, doing all the shitty jobs Ray doesn’t want to lower himself to do, all because he owns the business and I don’t.” Frank wrinkled his nose. “Where did it all go wrong?”  
“When you stopped trying to be a rock star,” said James. “You could’ve had your name in lights. Frank Turner,” he said, spelling it out in imaginary lights in the air between them.  
“It’s not a rock star name,” said Frank, laughing wryly. “Anyway, folk music is where it’s at now.”  
“You could be a travelling troubadour,” said James.  
“I’ll start in your club, then, shall I?” Frank said with a wink. “That means you’ll have to tell me where it is, introduce me to your friend Tom…”  
James went slightly pink, and the lanterns hanging from the low ceiling illuminated his blush to almost volcanic proportions.  
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” crowed Frank, good naturedly. “Tell me about Tom, then, you sly dog.”  
“Well, he’s got killer cheekbones,” said James, looking at the tablecloth, “and the greatest laugh I’ve ever heard. It’s brilliant.” He looked up to make sure Frank wasn’t laughing at him, and met eyes filled with genuine curiosity. “He’s really friendly,” he carried on, forcing himself to not look back down, “and he’s got great hair, and- oh shit,” his voice pitched unexpectedly higher, and he took on the appearance of a deer in the headlights, “he’s here!”


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James is getting under Benedict's skin... and not in a good way. Also, Mads Mikkelsen makes a typically weird, chef-related cameo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my characters. Apologies for the hiatus. I hope you haven't given up on my little saga!

“Tom,” said Benedict.  
“Yes, darling?”  
“You know how sometimes, most of the time… that is to say, all the times except the ones where you come along and make everything ok, things go a bit shit, quite shit, really ever so shit…”  
“What are you talking about, sweetheart?”  
Tom was bewildered, and reached across the table to reassuringly brush the skin of Ben’s inner wrist, a place that always seemed to soothe. Benedict snatched his hand away, though, clasping them together in his lap and looking for all the world like he was trying to turn right in on himself and disappear entirely, his jaw taut, the skin across his cheekbones tighter than ever, making them look razor-sharp in the shadows. He looked simultaneously terrifying and utterly dejected, and Tom did not know whether he should fuck him violently with a hand across his lover’s mouth, or make love to him slowly and sweetly, reassuring him that nothing in the world mattered as long as they were together; either way, he was sporting a most ungentlemanly public erection and poor Benedict had started to shake. It was not a good situation to be in.  
“Benedict? Ben?”  
“Did you do this on purpose?” asked Benedict, his voice cracking. “Did you know he was going to be here, Tom? I know you’re friends, it’s nice that you’re friends, I like you having friends, friends are lovely, goodness knows I have to make the most of them but I thought we came here because it’s what couples do, I thought it was just going to be you and me, I thought…” He hiccupped, and stood, still resisting Tom’s attempts at contact. “Can you not see him? Am I going mad?”  
“Who?”  
“I’m going to the bathroom,” said Benedict, and so he did. Tom scanned the room. James, who had shoved the most gigantic potted plant in front of his face when Benedict saw him, poked his head round the side of a ferocious looking spiked frond, and waved awkwardly. Tom sighed, and smiled ruefully, because it wasn’t his fault, or even James’, that the evening was soured by the other man’s unfortunate presence.  
“Hi,” James said, rising and walking over to Tom’s table. Benedict had left his coat draped over the back of his chair, and James looked at it for a moment before sinking amiably down into the recently vacated seat, beckoning his companion over behind him. “Fancy seeing you here. This is Frank,” he added, waving at Frank, who loomed over him and rubbed at his stubbly jaw with the nervous tic people learnt to recognise within half an hour of meeting him.  
“Alright,” said Frank, but Tom wasn’t, because James was sitting in Benedict’s seat.  
“I don’t mean to be rude,” said Tom, who was biologically incapable of rudeness, “but Benedict is in a bit of a state this evening, I was trying to relax him, he’s stressed about things, it was meant to be just the two of us, so I can’t really- well, I can’t stay and chat.” Of course, he couldn’t leave, either; for one, he hadn’t paid, secondly, Benedict hadn’t said if he wanted pudding or not (Tom would always want pudding, but Benedict wasn’t such a fan) and thirdly and finally, it was their table, not James’!  
“Oh,” said James, and his face fell. There was nothing worse than being embarrassed by one friend in front of another. “Well, we won’t stay long then. This is Frank,” he said again.  
“Yes, you said,” said Tom, wishing Benedict would come out of the toilets but doubting he would until Tom went in and dragged him out. “Hello, it’s nice to meet you.” Usually, he would have said “lovely”, but James didn’t know this. “Nice” was, in fact, decidedly underwhelming for the characteristically effusive Hiddleston. There was a pause which was threatening to become extremely uncomfortable, when suddenly a frying pan flew out from the door leading to the pub’s kitchen and landed with a loud rattle on the floor by Tom’s foot, catching the toe of one immaculately polished Chelsea boot. His eyebrows hitched fractionally up towards his hairline, and, bending graciously (and displaying the tightness of his smart blue trousers across a marvellously sculpted arse), he retrieved the implement and stepped delicately into the kitchen.  
“I believe you dropped this,” he said.  
“Dropped it? He fucking threw it at me!” shrieked a young man in an apron, clutching the side of his head, “and the fucking colander as well. He’s mental. I can feel a bruise coming up!” he whined, rubbing his face, and snatching the frying pan from Tom.  
“Don’t be so unspeakably rude!” thundered a thickly accented man, who loomed up, also wearing an apron, from behind a small refrigerator. “If you were not so unspeakably ignorant and rude I would not have had to throw things at you. It is only way you will pay attention, foolish boy.”  
“I quit!” shouted the unfortunate youth, at the same time the man- Danish, Tom guessed from the voice. He’d had holidays in Denmark as a boy, and had fond memories of his first blowjob, received in the cobwebby confines of a deserted pool house in a Danish resort. The accent still did things to him, and he liked this man; he had standards on politeness- bellowed “you are fired, FIRED I tell you!” He laid a large, coriander-scented hand on Tom’s shoulder, and smiled a smile that didn’t reach his maroon tinted eyes. “I am very sorry. Please, have your meal on the house. This is quite unforgiveable, I shall deal with him later.”  
“It’s quite all right,” said Tom, as if dealing with a frying pan being hurled at him was an everyday occurrence he prepared for.  
“It is not,” said the man firmly. “What is your name, please?”  
“Tom Hiddleston,” said Tom.  
“I will tell them your dinner is on the house. You and your guests?” the man said, gesturing at an open mouthed James and Frank. Tom shook his head.  
“Not my guests,” he said, “I’m just here with my boyfriend, Benedict.”  
“Free food for him too,” said the man firmly.  
“Well, that’s awfully kind, thank you,” said Tom, “thank you very much, Mr...?”  
“Mikkelsen. Mads Mikkelsen,” said the chef, smoothly. Recognition dawned in his eyes and he clapped Tom on the back. “I recognise you now, I saw you at Armitage’s two weeks ago. I was there with friends, you made big impression,” he winked. The emphasis was definitely on the word “big”, and Tom coloured slightly; this was an occupational hazard of the stripping career.  
“Ah, yes,” he said. “Well. Um. Thank you.”  
“Very nice,” Mads said. “I did not recognise you with your clothes on.”  
“Quite,” said Tom. “I think I’ll get back to my boyfriend now, thank you.”  
“Lucky boy,” winked the chef, and strode off to tell the cashier not to charge the pair of them. Tom straightened his tie, and headed into the toilets to retrieve his boyfriend.

***

Colin had watched as Aidan left, and then he’d found a corner in an empty car park outside the hospital and slept. He meant to sleep for a few hours, but woke up 25 of them later. He shook off unpleasant dreams of Bradley and Matt fencing on the edge of a spiked precipice, stole a bottle of water from a shop, and then went into the toilets and stared at his gaunt, haggard face in the smeared mirror for a very long time.  
His eyes had sunk, and no longer glinted in the way Bradley loved, and said was proof that he had elvish blood in his veins. “My little elf prince,” he would say, and ruffle Colin’s already tousled hair, and Colin would laugh, bashful, and duck his head and mumble “if ‘m Irish, you oughta say leprechaun” and Bradley would snort and say “I’m not going to be that bloody predictable. You’re my elf!” and tumble with him onto the floor, and proceed to kiss him breathless. He could almost hear the words, feel the breath of his lover- would have been his husband, had that bloody Matt not fucking ruined everything… Colin’s own breath hitched as reality claimed him back, and a gust of wind came through the dusty toilet window. He’d told Dean he would give himself up, and now he had to. Emerging from the toilets, he caught sight of two uniformed officers walking up the corridor towards him. He bolted back inside, forced the window further open than it was ever meant to go, and squeezed his thin little body through the gap. He landed on the floor, twisting his ankle and bruising his too-prominent hipbones, but staggered to his feet and ran off before anyone could intercept him. He stumbled into the police station mere hours later, blundered into DI Graves and spilt his coffee, grabbing his arm and gazing blearily at him before quavering “I want to confess” and fainting clean away on the floor. They didn’t find out what he wanted to confess to until he came round half an hour later, and then he confessed to taking part in the murders of a list of people they hadn’t even known were murdered, which made for an awful lot of paperwork and a general rolling of eyes at his inconvenient revelations. Especially inconvenienced was Julian, who had been promised some kind of sexual contact by Noel after his shift finished, which he might now miss out on, and who knew when the coquettish Noel would deign to get his dick out again? That is to say, he could of course whip it out at any time, but whether it would be appropriate or not was another matter; Julian might be forced to arrest rather than jump his new found other half.  
“Poor kid,” said DI Graves, appearing over Julian’s shoulder as he hunched over his computer, tapping away. The DI was mopping at the coffee stain on his shirt with a particularly grubby looking flannel, and making it a whole lot worse. “Oh, bugger,” said the DI, and dropped the flannel in the bin. “What was I saying? Oh yes, poor kid. He seems to be caught up in some ghastly fucking crime ring, people trafficking, prostitution, all that shit.”  
“Matt Smith,” said Julian. It wasn’t a question.  
“Yep, seems we might have him within our sights at long last. If Morgan is to be believed, this is worse than any of us could have imagined. Why the fuck did no one do anything about it beforehand?”  
“Ah,” said Julian apologetically, “that’s DI Simm for you, Sir.”  
“Well he’s a wanker, then,” said DI Graves, and looked gloomily down at his shirt. “Oh this is no good, I can’t go into a meeting with the Super looking like this.” He shrugged off his jacket and started to unbutton his stained shirt, and Julian’s eyes widened in reluctant admiration.  
“Sir?” he asked.  
“Well, when I look this good, you’d think the Super would be damn well grateful to have me turning up shirtless,” said Graves, replacing his jacket. He was indecently toned, and Julian coughed delicately, averting his eyes with reluctance. His cock was traitorously interested, stirring in the confines of his uniform trousers. “How many of the deceased have you filed, Sergeant?”  
“Uh. Five,” said Julian, squirming.  
“Then I suggest you take a break and get back to it tomorrow,” said the DI. “Go and put that erection of yours to good use.” Julian’s mouth hung open, and he walked quickly from the room, not sure if he’d heard his boss right.  
“Noel?” he said, into his phone.  
“I’m outside,” said Noel, who had been there for the past fifty eight minutes. “Come and fuck me?”  
“Oh fuck yes,” said Julian, and tripped over his own feet in his haste to leave.

*** 

“Benedict?”  
“What?” Misery dripped from that one short word, and Tom’s heart sank. Ben was descending into one of his glooms again, where his self esteem ran for the hills and doubt moved in to the vacated space in his soul, trailing bags of insecurities packed over the lonely years.  
“We’re not paying for dinner, it’s on the house. Compliment s of the chef,” Tom said, rattling the door of Benedict’s cubicle slightly. “Come on, love, come out of there… or at least let me in.”  
“James not waiting for you, is he?” Benedict asked.  
“Probably,” shrugged Tom, “but I brought my coat with me, and you can wear it if you don’t want to go back and get yours. I’ll have it sent on home later. How’s about we make a nifty escape through the bathroom window? I always used to, at school. I’m sure I still have the knack.”  
The door cracked open and Benedict’s eyes- red rimmed, poor darling- peered out into the artfully lit bathroom.  
“You’re serious?”  
“On the contrary, I am full of fun and hi-jinks,” winked Tom, handing Benedict his hastily retrieved coat. “There, get yourself in that, there’s a wind out there. Now, follow me.”  
Two thirtysomething men trying to squeeze through an average sized bathroom window was a sight to behold, and a couple of bemused passers by stopped on their evening strolls to watch. After a few moments of squirming and grunting, Benedict popped out the other side, stumbled slightly, and burst into delighted laughter. Tom followed, bright eyed and panting, and he bowed to their gathered audience before taking his lover’s hand and gesturing to the brunette. The audience obligingly clapped.  
“You’re right, this is fun,” agreed Benedict, as they took off down the street and vaulted the fence into the park, not even noticing the bartender and sergeant amorously entwined in the hedge mere metres from them. Noel, recognising his friend’s voice, raised his head momentarily, said “oh, it’s Hiddlebatch!” and then went straight back to enthusiastically sucking Julian off. All in all, the evening could have gone worse.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those long-awaited police uniforms put in an appearance. I really love men in uniform ok...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my characters. Also, this fic is now one year old, so thanks for sticking with me, chaps and chapettes <3

Sunshine rose over the sleeping city, smiling gently in through the window of Richard’s bedroom. He had quite forgotten to close the curtains the previous night, meaning anyone on a level with his first floor would have gotten one helluva free show- but Richard did not have neighbours , and so no one was afforded that privilege.   
A week had now passed since Aidan had been released from the hospital, and six days had passed since Richard’s resolve not to indulge in sordid fornication with the beautiful Irishman had broken, buckling under the pressure of those chocolate eyes and finely muscled thighs. He blamed Dean for encouraging Aidan, although in his heart of hearts he knew Aidan was the one driving it, the one who drove everything. He had an uncanny knack of getting anything he desired with one flutter of those lashes, and Richard didn’t have it in him to mind at all. Things were, in fact, pretty wonderful at the present time, and events of the past few weeks seemed all in the past, lost in a haze of a bad dream. Proceedings to bring Mark Gatiss, the crooked accounts manager, were well underway, and Dean had decided to sell up his modest one bedroom flat in favour of moving in permanently with his two boyfriends- because, really, who needed independence when you had Aid and Rich and the tonnes of money in the aptly-named latter’s personal bank account?  
“I’ve been thinking,” began Dean, who was more awake than the others.  
“Well don’t, ‘s too early,” Richard rumbled groggily from somewhere under a large scarlet pillow, the same one Aidan had been biting last night in a vain attempt to be a “good boy” and stifle his pornographic moans.  
“The sun is up, and so is my dick, so it’s definitely not too early for conversation,” Dean said bluntly, and Aidan joined in with a mumbled “unghh, and mine too”, wriggling closer into Dean’s chest and sniffing his neck affectionately. “Anyway, I was thinking, now that all the fuss has died down, what about going on a break somewhere? Relaxing getaway to some sunny isle? Just the three of us. We haven’t really done anything like that before, and I’m damned if we don’t deserve it after all we’ve been through!”  
Aidan raised his head and twisted round to look, blinking, at Richard.  
“You know what, that’s a bloody brilliant idea, Deano,” he said. “Somewhere really fucking hot, where everyone walks around in the altogether and nobody minds if I accidentally slip and land with your cock up my backside on the beach.”  
“That’s a fairly niche travel market,” Richard said dryly, “and I don’t know that you’ll find all that many travel agents offering that sort of holiday. That being said, I do know of a excellent nudist beach in the south of France, and there- well, used to be, I don’t know how many still remain- was also a particularly tempting range of bdsm bars along the seafront.” He paused, as he let his brain catch up with himself. “In fact, it might not be a bad idea seeing if there’s a market for expanding the franchise over there. A bustling ex-pat community could be just what we need for a foreign market!”  
“I’ll expand your franchise in a minute, if you don’t stop talking shop,” grumbled Aidan. “You won’t be able to sit down for a week when I’m done expanding it, in fact.” Richard had the good grace to look somewhat contrite, if only because he liked indulging the Irishman’s bossy streak.  
“Ok, ok,” Richard said. “No business.”  
“Maybe later,” Aidan amended. “I mean, it might be kind of nice to have a foreign arm to Armitage’s-“ at which point Dean rolled his eyes and stuck his elbow into Aidan’s torso, groaning “no puns, it’s still too early for puns!” and whacked the Irishman with his discarded boxer shorts.  
“Agreed,” said Richard, and pounced on Aidan, pinning the younger man beneath ripplingly muscled arms. “Now, Aidan my lad, if you want your tea in bed, you’re going to have to earn it.” He reared up, making way for Dean take over the task of keeping Aidan flat on his back against the Egyptian cotton sheets, and let the head of his magnificent morning erection brush against Aidan’s willingly parted lips. “You can start with me, and I hope you’ve got room for seconds, because Dean here seems to be suffering, poor boy.”  
Eyes bright and cock absolutely solid with arousal, Aidan joyfully swallowed around his first cock of the day and thanked his lucky stars he hadn’t fallen off anyone else’s roof because really, how much more pleasant could the consequences have been?  
*** 

“He’s calling you again, isn’t he?” Benedict said with a yawn, as he stood in the living room doorway, gazing out the window at the early morning sunshine. Tom’s phone continued to buzz and ring merrily. “What is it this time? Got himself stuck in his vibrating cock ring again?” sarcastically.  
“Ben!” exclaimed Tom, and dissolved into laughter. “I like it when you’re all sarcastic, but don’t worry yourself, I’m not going to answer. There, see?” He tossed his phone onto the sofa and swept Benedict up in his arms, nearly overbalancing both of them into the kitchenette. “Chucking my phone out of the way of your ire and wrath, because there’s only one man with whom I want to have early morning chats, and that, dear heart, is you.” They held the pose for a moment, Benedict playing the Ginger Rogers to Tom’s Fred Astaire and gazing up into those kind blue eyes, until the buzzing and tinny ringtone faded to nothingness, and James’ anxious sounding voice replaced it.  
“You must be busy…sorry if I- um- if I woke you. Uh… but I’d really appreciate it if you’d give me some advice? I’d rather not talk about it in a voicemail, it’s always a bit too incriminating” nervous laugh “but yes, if you could…you know…phone me back?”  
Benedict rolled his eyes, and Tom kissed away the stinging remark he had poised on his lips in response to the voicemail. Benedict managed a small smile, but it failed to reach his eyes, and Tom noticed, but said nothing. He straightened up, dropping his hands to each one of Benedict’s prominent hipbones.  
“You’re getting thinner,” he mused. “Were you actually planning on eating any breakfast today, Ben?”  
Benedict shrugged.  
“That friend of yours rather put me off my food,” he snarked, scuffing his foot against the wall like a surly child, and had to bite back a cutting addendum something along the lines of “and you’re not the boss of me”.  
“Oh, don’t be so contrary,” said Tom, “unless of course you’re after a good old fashioned spanking.”  
“Are my motives really so transparent?”  
“Oh, only to me.”  
Leaving Benedict to stand morosely in a puddle of his own thoughts, Tom opened the window and stuck his head out, eyes closing against the warm brightness.  
“Would you look at that sun? What a magnificent day! I almost feel like composing a sonnet,” he declared.  
“You compose sonnets?” Benedict’s mood lifted at the thought. He loved finding out new things about the other man, even now.  
“I composed a sonnet. Singular,” said Tom. “It was mainly about how much I desired to get inside your tight beautiful backside and fornicate with you into the middle of next week. Shakespeare would, I feel, have been utterly appalled.” He glanced over at Benedict, whose jaw had dropped to such a degree that he could have been advertising early onset signs of a stroke, and grinned. “You look somewhat shocked. Are you?”  
“Surprised,” admitted Benedict. “A little bit surprised. Could I… possibly read it?”  
“If I can find it, by all means,” said Tom. “Though I can’t for the life of me recall where I put it. But yes. If I can find it, you can read it.”

*** 

Temporaily sated, Richard slipped downstairs in his bare feet and hastily donned PJ bottoms (he, of course, owned the classic style of flannel pyjamas, and looked every inch the cultured English gent in them, when he bothered to wear them at all) to make the promised tea. Leaving the two boys sleepily sipping on chai, he changed into something more work-appropriate, including a shirt and tie because he had a meeting later on in the day, and was ever the professional. He settled down in the plush leather office chair in his study, and looked every inch the businessman… but somehow, he ended up instead on a travel website, looking at various break packages with the non-existant regard for prices that only the very rich will know. A plan slowly formed in his mind, and he reached for the phone.  
“Yeah, whaddaya want?” Martin was nothing if not abruptly to-the-point.  
“Good morning to you too, Mr Freeman,” Richard laughed. “I actually have a proposition for you, though not the sort you might be hoping for.”  
“Does it involve dicks?”  
“Yes, somewhat indirectly,” admitted Richard.  
“I’m all ears.”  
“I’m going away next month. Or this month. ‘ve not quite reached a decision about precisely when to go yet-”  
Here, Martin jumped in, and to the utterly wrong conclusion.  
“Oh, bloody fuck,” he interjected, “you’re not in trouble, are you, Rich? Is this to do with that wretched little excrescence Smith, is it? Because if he’s said that you’ve got to ‘disappear’, I will personally come over there and fucking well j-”  
“MARTIN! I mean for a holiday!” Richard had to roar the words into the phone, and Martin subsided.  
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” he groused.  
“I mean, go away with the boys for a break. Nothing to get worked up about,” Richard continued, “but, you see, I’ll be needing someone reliable to keep the good ship Armitage’s sailing smoothly while I’m away. A familiar face, somebody who already knows the ropes. I’ll keep my phone on me at all times, so any business enquiries will still come to me, you won’t have to deal with any suppliers or promotional requests. You’ll just be there. Eyeballing the boys in the nicest possible way and enjoying free reign behind the bar. How does that sound to you?”  
“Pretty bloody nice,” said Martin, after a pause. “That’s nice of you. Thanks. I- uh- I won’t let you down.” He coughed awkwardly. Richard wondered if Martin’s emotions had been surgically removed at birth, and put the man out of his misery by making up an excuse to hang up.  
“Bye, Martin,” he said, with an unmistakable smile in his voice. Martin growled. Richard didn’t take it personally. He replaced the phone, and went back to browsing the travel website, and was suitably engrossed so as not to hear footsteps padding into the bathroom, down the stairs, or out the back door. The first he knew of what was about to befall him came in the form of the intercom buzzing and crackling, announcing the arrival of some (presumably unwanted) visitors. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and his brow furrowed. He approached the intercom receiver cautiously, looking suspiciously at the thing as if by some supernatural force it would suck him in.  
“Hello?” he said.

*** 

It was a little known fact that Dean had gone to drama school, briefly, in New Zealand, before emigrating over to England on a whim and becoming a stripper. His time at the drama school may only have been brief, but he’d quickly discovered that accents were very much his forte- which meant that now, as he stood outside Richard’s house clad in the most impractical police uniform known to mankind, with one hand over Aidan’s mouth to stop his infernal giggling, he was no longer Dean with the Kiwi accent. He was DI O’Gorman, with a strong Manchester drawl that managed to frighten the living daylights out of Richard, up in his office, who had no reason to suspect this was anything but a genuine police visit.  
“Open up, please, Sir. This is a matter of urgency,” he said, when Richard for the second time demanded what was going on.  
“I need to see some I.D,” he rasped, but there was no reply because the boys were already sprinting back around to the back door, slipping in and up the stairs as stealthily as they’d exited. They planned on tackling the older man on the stairs as he made his way down to open the door, but hadn’t counted on his ability to keep his composure; he may have been internally freaking out, but he sat as still and tense as anything, waiting for their reply through the intercom.  
“I said,” he began, and then the body in the doorway cast a long, mop-headed shadow across his office floor. He turned. Aidan stood there, his delicious curves poured into a deep blue uniform from the pockets of which the smallest hint of glinting silver could be seen. Richard gulped, immediately feeling constricted in his suit trousers; that silver sparkle brought back memories of Graham with one hand on the small of his back, pressing him down into the hotel bed, whispering huskily into his ear that “if you want to stick with leather, tell me now, because otherwise I’m gonna put you in these cuffs like the bad boy you are, and I’m not going to release you until you’ve come enough times on my hand alone that I don’t think you’ll need to play with yourself again any time soon”. The threat was more like a delicious promise, and in response Richard had squirmed his bare, spanked arse up against the soft material of Graham’s expensive suit.  
“Please,” he’d whimpered, and the memory alone of the hot breath of his words coming back off the pillow against his face as McTavish loosened the leather cuffs and closed clinking metal around his wrists in their place was enough to force a small gasp between his lips. Aidan’s eyes darkened at the sound, and he knew that this was definitely going to be worth the wait.  
“This is a police raid,” said Dean, reverting back to his natural voice. “And you’re not obliged to say anything…in fact,” stepping around to stand directly in front of Richard, “we’d rather you said nothing at all.” He reached for Richard’s tie, twisting it around his hand and forcing the older man to come closer, until he was right on the edge of the chair. Dean could feel the man’s heart pounding beneath his shirt, shallow breaths making his broad chest rise and fall soft and fast. A wicked glint appeared in Dean’s eyes and he slowly released Richard’s tie, instead closing his hand around Richard’s strong jaw, tilting the older man’s head up and forcing direct eye contact. A red blush began to rise on Richard’s cheekbones, and his adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped down much-needed air. “But I’m afraid we are going to have to search you… intensively.”  
Aidan took over then, nudging Dean out the way so that he could drop down between Richard’s thighs, nudging them wide apart and running long fingers expertly down the inseam of those constricting trousers, never once going near the spot where Richard really wanted the touch.  
“Please…”  
“I said, don’t speak,” uttered Dean sharply, and suddenly he had his hand right up tight against Richard’s neck, feeling the tension in his whole body thrumming beneath that thin, tanned skin. It was something they’d never tried before, something Dean was well aware could go badly wrong, but Richard blinked and when his eyes opened again, there was nothing but trust held within. Dean tightened his hold. Richard wheezed. “I warned you.” Dean let go, and slowly, purposefully licked a stripe up the column of his neck to his chin, then further up across one flushed cheek. It was a show of power, a kind of degradation and disregard for another human’s free will that really set Richard’s blood thrumming in a way he hadn’t known since Graham uncovered his inner kinkster back in Belgrade. That had only been a few nights in a hotel…this was so much more. His head lolled back when Dean released him fully, only to be dragged to his feet roughly by Aidan’s strong hands clasped around each of his.  
“On your feet,” he growled. “Stand up straight and don’t move.”  
Shoulders back, hands wrested behind his body and secured in Aidan’s handcuffs, there wasn’t a lot Richard could do- nothing he wanted to do- other than stand there while they searched him, peeling off layer after layer of clothing, loosening his tie just enough to bind it around his eyes and then tighten it once more until the only sense he could really rely on was touch. Everything about him, every inch of the skin on his body was buzzing with heightened sensitivity, and finally he stood there completely naked, vulnerable and aroused and shaking with the anticipation. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen first, but in a way it came as no surprise to feel the hastily warmed wetness of lube against his hole, smeared over Aidan’s finger (Dean’s were shorter) and slipped in through the pink pucker. He still tensed, sucked in a sharp breath, and for a split second, Dean broke character, caressed a damp dark strand of Richard’s fringe back from his sweating temples and reassuringly brushing a kiss against the pulsing vein in his neck. It distracted him momentarily from the sensation of there being an insistent solid object making its way into his arse (because of course the uniforms would come with batons that were actually dildoes) and when he realised it was going in, it had already gone in, and Aidan was working it back and forth with a great deal of enthusiasm, occasionally reaching forwards to fondle the balls hanging close to where he squatted behind the man. It was getting too much, Richard knew he wouldn’t last as long as he’d have liked… With just a short, sharp cry of warning, he was coming, thick strings pulsing out and leaving him weak-kneed and exhausted, trembling against Dean’s body as the shorter man supported his weight, unlocking the cuffs deftly. Hey fell with a clatter to the floor, and Richard flinched at the sound. Dean kissed him, Aidan cleaned him up, and they guided him back to the bedroom and nudged him into the bed, drawing the soft covers up around his waist. Finally, Aidan loosened the blindfold, and the first thing he saw was their eyes staring lovingly down into his. The second thing was the tents in their respective trousers, and he chuckled.  
“Go on then, boys,” he said, “finish each other off. Just…let the old man watch, yeah?”  
Aidan winked.  
“Interview terminated,” he said, and jumped joyfully into Dean’s willing arms.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Shaun Evans (Benedict's costar in "Wreckers" and the lead in "Endeavour") and Tom Mison in minor roles. Someone asked me on Tumblr to include Tom Mison ages ago and I don't recall who it was so I'm sorry but here you go lovely person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not my characters. So sorry for the long delay, I've had a whole lot of shit happen in the real world. So sorry, BS&S fans, if there are any of you still around!!

“I have a confession, but I don’t know what to do with it.”  
After Benedict had reluctantly eaten a hot breakfast and decided to embrace the fresh air by going for a long overdue run, Tom phoned James back. He wished the two of them got on better, and wasn’t quite sure what Benedict had against the other man. He worried about James, took a friendly concerned interest in how the new boy was settling in…even though it seemed he wasn’t. He asked to meet Tom in person, and Tom tried to squeeze whatever was the matter out of him down the phone line, but that was all James said. He had a confession. And he wasn’t sure what to do with it. It was all somewhat perplexing, and whereas Tom would normally have sat down with a cup of tea and discussed it with Benedict, that wasn’t an option where James was concerned; Ben seemed opposed to James’ existence on a deep spiritual level!  
“I’m rather…busy,” he lied. Lying was not something that came naturally to Tom. It was against the Hiddleston code of conduct, along with going through a door before anybody else, and taking the last roast potato at a dinner party. “Could you just tell me now what’s the matter?”  
It seemed he could not.  
“I need to see you. I never know… I just can’t. Can we go for a drink or something?” James sounded desperate now, and Tom relented.  
“Oh…kay,” he exhaled a reluctant acquiescence. “Twenty minutes at the Crown?”

*** 

Noel did not take naturally to exercise, unless it was naked trampolining, which nobody ever wanted to think about, witness, or allow to happen, ever again. So when Benedict jogged past the park bench where he sat, trying to train the wild pigeons that bobbed and cooed about his feet, the last thing he expected was for his colleague- no, friend, he reminded himself. Noel was his very good friend- to offer his companionship in the remainder of the run.  
“Gimme a sec, and I’ll get my trackies,” said Noel, whose home was two minutes from the park. “You come in and freshen up if you want, use the bathroom or whatever.” It was the first time Benedict had been in Noel’s house, and at first he was alarmed by the skinned animals on the wall, and the seemingly velvet wallpaper adorning the living room, but then Noel emerged from the small bedroom clad in glittery green tracksuit bottoms and a black and gold tank top, and he had a whole new set of issues to be alarmed by.  
“I say!” he said.  
“You look proper confused, you do,” observed Noel, who was now doing lunges with an almost dangerous enthusiasm. “Am I not allowed to want to extend my life,” he adopted a faux upper-class accent, “with healthy living and fresh air?”  
“Oh- no, quite,” said Benedict.  
“My sex life, I mean,” Noel clarified, and Benedict’s eyes goggled somewhat, giving him the distinct appearance of a stuffed frog. “Nah, I don’t care if I die young, I’ll be reincarnated. Probably as a cabbage. Just can’t stand the thought of being alive and not being able to-” He broke off in favour of some graphic miming, thrusting his hips and gurning impressively.  
Benedict winced slightly.  
Noel resumed his narrative.  
“I mean, really, if you can’t be bothered to try and extend your sex life for as long as humanly possible, you might as well send a typewritten Valentine’s card in Comic Sans saying “I don’t give a shiiiit”, for all your relationship means to you. Unless you’re an asexual. Which I’m not. Do I look like an asexual to you, Ben?”  
Benedict mutely shook his head. Words failed him.  
“Look, mate, you sure you’re alright? You look a bit rummy,” Noel said, suddenly concerned. “I don’t think you should be running if you’re feeling green.”  
“Not half as green as you,” Benedict managed, and Noel clapped him on the back.  
“That’s my boy,” he said, approvingly. “Come on then, work those legs. Atta boy.” They set off at a brisk pace, stopping some short 20 minutes later when the welcoming, gently swinging sign of Noel’s favourite pub loomed into sight at the top of the hill. Noel’s eyes lit up, and Benedict knew in his heart of hearts that the exercise for the day was over.  
“Go on then,” he said, in response to Noel’s imploring eyes. “First drink’s on me.”

*** 

James knew he was playing with fire. Matt might not be looming over his shoulder- rumour had it that his assistant Mat had persuaded him to leave the country, but nobody really knew- but that didn’t mean he had given up the power to intimidate the hell out of the other man. James knew he hadn’t left his phone unattended around Matt, but that didn’t stop him panicking, imagining a bug hidden inside and relaying his every word back to the Smith camp. Tom was halfway to the Crown when James called him.  
“I- what I said. It doesn’t matter. All sorted, silly little thing really. Um- I’ll see you tonight at work?”  
“James, are you sure you-”  
“Sure as anything. You’re a good man, Tom.”  
Baffled, Tom turned around to head home before remembering Benedict was out in the town somewhere. He phoned him, and the phone was picked up by Noel.  
“Hullo stranger,” chirped the other barman. “Lover boy’s gone to the bathroom. Can I help?”  
“Yeah, where are you? I’m in need of a stiff drink,” said Tom, who was reaching whole new levels of bemusement over James’ behaviour. Noel sniggered.  
“That’s not the only stiff thing you’re after, is it? Cheeky bastard,” he grinned. “Anyway, we’re in the Golden Beech. Get your sweet little arse over here and cheer your boyfriend up, he’s in a weird mood. Fine one moment and then low as shit the next…you haven’t fallen out, have you?” He sounded almost fearful at the prospect.  
“Not at all!” Tom said, vehemently. “I’m on my way.”

*** 

It is needless to dwell on exactly what happened throughout the rest of the day, but it’s sufficient to say that Benedict stayed practically conjoined to Tom for the remaining hours before they had to be at work, head resting on Tom’s shoulder and hands entwined in Tom’s lap, as if by some strange magic he could keep the man all to himself and never let any doubts or misunderstandings get between them ever again. Most of all, he wanted to keep anything to do with James McAvoy well away from their little bubble of contentment. When they left to go to the club that evening, their hands never broke contact- it made paying for their drinks somewhat complicated, admittedly- and Benedict watched wistfully as Tom vanished into the dressing room he shared with the other boys, letting out a mournful sigh. Noel nudged him.  
“Richard’s here, buddy,” he said. As if by Pavlovian response, Benedict plastered a welcoming smile on his face and waved at his employer. “He looks well and truly fucked out. Lucky git,” enviously. He was right, Benedict had to admit Richard did have the “cat got the cream” look of a man who has spent the day being sandwiched between his two energetic young lovers. He strode over with a broad smile, and the strobe lights flashed incriminatingly onto the scratches along the left side of his neck, trailing tantalisingly beneath the crisp white collar of his shirt and into unknown territory.  
“Evening, boys,” he said smoothly, and ran a hand through hastily smoothed dark hair. “Before we get underway tonight, I want to explain the situation. Someone turn those strobe lights off for a moment, would you? Willbond, you’re nearest.” Willbond obligingly got the lights. “Thank you. Right, everyone listening?” General noises of murmured assent. “Good. Right, as most of you shameless gossip-mongers know, Dean, Aidan and I have stumbled on a new living arrangement, and as such they’re both my boys and anyone who has a problem with that has no business in my establishment, quite frankly. You’ll also be aware we’ve had some problems with the criminal underworld, which are in the process of being sorted out. So. We’re going to be away for a week at the end of this month, leaving this, the apple of my eye,” he gestured expansively to the air around him, “in the capable hands of one Mr Martin Freeman.” Right on cue, Martin popped his head round the door, and was greeted by spontaneous cheering and whooping, led by David, who had slipped in with Noel and was pleased as punch that his friend had been afforded such an honour. “However, in the meantime, it’s business as usual.” He gestured to the bouncers, who obligingly made their way to the front doors. “Knock ‘em dead, lads!”  
He was accosted on the stairs up to the flat, where he was going to hang his jacket, by a pouting, wheedling Irishman.  
“I thought I was the apple of your eye, Richard?” Aidan drawled, feigning hurt. Richard smiled, cupped the lightly stubbled jaw in warm strong hands, and stroked fine cheekbones, shamelessly placating him.  
“I think we both know that the love I have for this place is cut from an entirely different cloth than the love I have for you and Dean,” he said, voice gravelly and breath hot against Aidan’s skin. “And the main difference is I wouldn’t dream of leaving you two alone with Martin for a week. Mine,” he said, and nipped at Aidan’s neck.  
“Yours,” agreed Aidan, smirking in the gloom.

*** 

“Hey, listen- about earlier.” James caught Tom’s sleeve just before they were due on stage together, and Tom instinctively tensed. “I think my phone’s being monitored, I couldn’t say what I wanted to- but I do still have a…problem. And you’re the only person I know here enough to trust with it.”  
“A confession, you said.”  
“Ye-es,” reluctantly. James regretted laying his cards out on the table like that. Tom definitely had the upper hand.  
“Well, look, now isn’t a good time. Later,” said Tom.  
“Ok. Later,” agreed James.

*** 

It seemed to be a day for unexpectedness. Benedict turned from stacking shot glasses in the cupboard, leaned over to hear the next man’s drinks order, and gasped.  
“I say,” said he, at the same time the customer let out a surprised “golly!” For before him, twenty years older but little changed in the facial department, was the boy Benedict had been friends with before moving schools. He was a couple of years younger, and had lived down the road from Benedict until his – Benedict’s- parents hit hard financial times and had to move house, removing Benedict from his fee-paying school and catapulting him into the world of comprehensives. Shaun had stayed at the private school, and Facebook wasn’t around when they were young (neither would Benedict have utilised it if it had been an option; Andrew’s betrayal cut deep, and he half wished he could wipe all the people who knew him at school off the face of the earth, to save potential embarrassment like this…because he realised after a moment that he was goggling again, and it was less than attractive) so they had lost contact. Benedict had forgotten about him, actually; they weren’t best friends, but Shaun was kind and fun and sort of looked up to the older boy, and as far as Benedict knew, he hadn’t heard about the Andrew situation. He was more or less a safe space to reminisce- not something Benedict had willingly done before, but Shaun recognised him and now he had no choice.  
“Benedict! Is it really you? Goodness, you’ve gone dark- your hair, I mean,” Shaun said, genially, and reached out to shake his hand. “It suits you, looks sophisticated.”  
“I’m still a ginge at heart,” said Benedict, passing a hand lightly across his curls, the roots of whch still glowed a slight auburn hue, “but don’t tell Tom.”  
“Tom?”  
“The one up there in the leather trousers, third from the left,” Noel supplied helpfully, and Shaun stared for a moment, bewitched, as all men were, by the sight of those undulating hips and beautiful, twistedly innocent looking smile. He let out a low whistle.  
“You did better than me,” he said, approvingly, “I’ve just been dumped. Fetch us a vodka and coke, Ben? Make it a double, and we’ll gossip. You can gossip while working, can’t you?”

*** 

 

Slipping out the front on his break, Tom fished in the pocket of his deliciously form-fitting trousers for his cigarettes. Benedict was busy, engrossed in conversation with a genial looking brown haired gentleman, three Greek tourists, and Noel, and Tom smiled as he made his way outside, electing not to interrupt.  
“Blast,” he said, as the last cigarette in his packet slipped onto the ground and straight down the grate at his feet. “Damn and blast.”  
“Oh, let me,” said James. Tom’s heart sank but he smiled anyway, took the proffered fag and lit it with fingers that only shook minimal amounts. “Are we alone?”  
“Pretty much,” said Tom, drawing on the cigarette and blowing the smoke up into the clear night sky, avoiding eye contact in favour of admiring the half moon hanging above the club like some kind of Biblical signpost.  
“It’s about Matt Smith,” blurted James.  
Tom’s head snapped down to directly stare into the other man’s eyes.  
“I beg your pardon?” he said, suddenly looking very dangerous.  
“A-are you one of his?” For a moment, James’ heart stopped and he thought he’d made a terrible mistake. Not Tom. It couldn’t be…  
“Do I fucking look like one of-”  
Tom stopped, horrified at himself.  
“I am so sorry. I don’t- please, forgive my language. It’s a sensitive subject, we’re all a bit tense. He still hasn’t been apprehended. Come round here, don’t let the bouncers listen in if this is going to be top secret.” He led the way round the side of the building and the two of them stood in the shadow of the bins, smoking and skulking like errant teenagers. “Carry on,” Tom said curtly, sucking at the cigarette for support.  
“He wanted me to work for him,” James said.  
“You’re one of his?” Tom was aghast.  
“No, no, no! He wanted me to, bullied me, told me things about Richard which I’m supposing now are complete lies. I don’t know, I just don’t feel safe. Should I go to the police, should I lie low until he’s caught… should I even be telling you? I don’t know anything of value, I barely know the man himself, and neither do I want to. He scares me, Tom, this whole situation scares me. I never wanted to end up living this way, I’m a fucking Economics graduate for goodness sake, I’m mean to be living a life of spreadsheets and cocktail parties in a high rise office block!” Tom could see the other man becoming hysterical, and was debating whether or not to slap him just to get the sense shocked back into his overloading brain, when he was suddenly and powerfully seized from behind, sinewy arms wrapping around his waist in a sickeningly intimate motion.  
“I made enquiries,” came the smooth Danish voice, “and your employer said he doesn’t organise private showings… But perhaps, we can reach a more informal arrangement?”  
“Let go of me,” snarled Tom, trying to throw Mikkelsen from his person. No luck. The Dane was well built, terrifyingly strong, and drunk to the point he could probably snap the slighter man’s body without even meaning to. “Let GO!”  
James, open mouthed and frozen to the spot in the short time it took for all this to unfold, suddenly sprang into action. He stepped out of the shadows- Mikkelsen evidently hadn’t noticed Tom was not alone- and in the short tussle that ensued, Tom sank his teeth into one of the Dane’s strong wrists, while James landed a wildly flailing but effective punch on the left side of the older man’s face. Snarling and cursing, he ran off into the anonymous gloom of the otherwise empty street, and by the time the bouncers realised there was trouble round the side, the culprit was beyond their reach.  
“Fucking creep!” said one of the bouncers, when James and Tom managed to make some sort of garbled report. “I’ll get Mr Armitage.”  
“No, for the love of all things sainted, don’t tell him!” Tom exclaimed. “He’ll go ballistic!”  
But it was too late, Richard was already striding over, parting punters effortlessly like the Red Sea.  
“The hell’s going on?” he demanded, angrily.  
“Assault. Attempted, not actual,” Tom said shortly. “Mads Mikkelsen, the chef Ben and I met when we went out for dinner. He got a bit… handsy.”  
“What?” Richard was thunderous in voice and expression. “That bloody little… He came up to me earlier, wanted to book a private party at his house. He didn’t specify who he wanted to book, but it’s obvious you’ve got yourself a dangerous fan there. Of course, I told him we don’t do events off-site, I’m not a bloody pimp, but he seems to have ignore my very clear message to back off. Where were you?”  
“Round the side. By the bins,” Tom said. “James was with me, nearly knocked him out. Thank goodness for James and his uppercut,” smiling wryly.  
“That’s too far!” Richard exploded. “There’s a reason I prefer you to stay close to the site when you’re on your breaks. I can’t look out for everyone at once, and it’s a dog eat dog world outside these walls. It would,” he cleared his throat as sentiment threatened to bubble up, “it would break me if one of my boys were to get hurt on my watch. Please, be careful, Hiddleston.”  
“Sir,” Tom acknowledged.  
“I’ll get Mikkelsen on the barred list asap,” Richard said. “Are you ok to carry on?”  
“Yes,” Tom agreed, “if someone could get me another cigarette, though, that’d be great.”  
Word did, of course, reach his boyfriend fairly swiftly, and Shaun and Noel watched as the colour drained from his face and he swallowed tightly. Tom Mison, the stripper who broke the news to him, awkwardly patted his shoulder as the bartender pushed past him to go and check on Tom.  
“Benedict?” he said. Benedict shook him off; Tom knew not to take it personally.  
“James punched a man for him. James did it. It shouldn’t have been James,” Benedict muttered, and Tom wasn’t sure if it was anger or sadness that won the battle for dominance in his tone. “It should have been me.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A holiday to a French villa. Also, Benedict has sex. Maybe not with the person you're expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my characters, I live in a total fantasy world and none of it is based on fact. I just use the actors' names.

Sometimes, love gets a bit too much. It gets possessive, pushy; playfulness is replaced with paranoia and nothing seems to make sense at face value. It happens when you love someone so much that you can’t accept the rest of the world doesn’t see how perfect they are and are convinced they are consequently out to steal them from you. It happens when you feel inadequate, when you’ve just about stopped comparing yourself to everyone else and then it starts again, jolting you like a stab in the back when you thought you were alone with your thoughts, when the truth is it’s your own mind that sunk the dagger in. It’s not safe, it’s not healthy, and it’s not the way Benedict ever thought he’d end up. As he sat in the weak, watery sunrise, a sunrise that looked about as wan and weary as Benedict felt, he realised he wasn’t happy, he had ended up that way, and he didn’t want it to carry on. The night was a blur, the rest of his shift had gone in a haze of alcohol and smoke and numbness and Shaun and Noel’s voices intermingled asking him, repeatedly, if he was ok. He suspected Noel had actually done most of the work, because he didn’t trust himself to handle the glasses when he himself felt about as fragile as they were. He’d gone back to his own house, hadn’t answered Tom’s calls, calls that started as soon as he left the building and ended when- well, they hadn’t ended. The tinny ring of his mobile phone sounded faintly from the inside of the house. Benedict rubbed his temples and passed a hand across tired eyes. They came away damp, and something trickled down one gaunt cheekbone and ghosted his lips. It was salty, and sad. He didn’t even think he had strength left to weep but obviously he must have, because the tears weren’t stopping.

*****

That was two weeks ago. Benedict didn’t like to dwell on the moment he told Tom they had to take a break but Tom couldn’t forget it, the scene kept replaying in his tortured mind, right down to the last detail. The way he’d felt when he opened his house door and seen his boyfriend standing there, silhouetted against the morning sun like Gabriel passing a message to Mary, although there was nothing angelic about the rest of his appearance, with shoes unlaced and jaw stubbly, eyes sunken and hair unswept, frizzed in place of its usual curly waves. His shirt buttons, on the same shirt he’d been wearing at work the previous night, were done up wrong, and the fabric smelt of stale booze and sweaty bodies. Usually, it would have been a thing of beauty, but the smile was missing. Tom’s own froze on his face and he stepped back, gestured inside the hallway. “Come in,” he said, and the “darling” choked him in the larynx.  
“It wasn’t meant to go like this,” said Benedict. They were his first words since he stepped inside, and he didn’t sugar coat the main clause. “But it has, and- we’re not how we were. I’m jealous, I’m paranoid, you’re the sort of man who lights up the room…hell, you light up the world, I think that’s why I’m having so many problems…how can someone like me hope to compete with the rest of the world for the attention of the Sun?” Tom opened his mouth, but Ben’s raised hand stopped his words. “No, don’t. I need to do this, it’s the least I can do. I’m leaving you before you leave me, because you’d feel guilty and I don’t want you to. Consider it my parting gift. Freedom. It was good, we had fun,” his lips twitched in a sort of mutant half-smile, “and you all but cured my stutter, so thank you.”  
“Benedict, don’t you d-“  
“Goodbye, Tom.”  
Dry eyed and steady voiced, Benedict extended a hand that didn’t tremble, and shook Tom’s, looked him straight in the eye and smiled.  
“Thank you.”  
It would have been rude to stop Ben on his way out, after an impressive performance worthy of an Oscar, a BAFTA, whatever award you wanted to chuck at the guy… Tom was impressed. The old Ben would never have managed. He still wished he had stopped him, though, dragged him back and demanded a re-shoot, wished they could make it a deleted scene, anything really. He just watched him go, walk down the street with his shoulders back and his head up, and something akin to pride rose in him alongside the lump in his throat.  
“I didn’t want you to go,” he whispered, long after Benedict was out of sight. “What have I done? I didn’t want you to go, Ben. Why did you think you had to go?”  
Now, though, they usually sat in their separate houses, with clothing belonging to the other tucked sentimentally away in their bedrooms, contemplating the past fortnight without each other. Of course, work made it impossible to avoid each other totally and completely, which Benedict would have preferred, because Tom started to wear this slightly sad, haunted, puppy-like look deep in his eyes and as much as Benedict tried to socialise with his other colleagues as much as possible just to avoid seeing this look, the club was only so big and he could only get so far from that stare. To make matters worse, Richard had taken Aidan and Dean off to the South of France and Martin was relying on some of the “core” members of staff to keep the good ship Armitage’s sailing smoothly, which included the exes.  
The others were horrified.  
“You did what?” exclaimed Noel, his mouth opening wider than it had done since he tried to deep throat Julian, balls and all.  
“You said WHAT?!” David expostulated, more frustrated than anything that his favourite couple had gone and done something so idiotic.  
“Why in the name of- of ANYTHING…?” “I can’t understand what happened!” “Why would this be a thing?” “They’ve done WHAT??” were a selection of the other responses, and Richard nearly cancelled his holiday, as if this were some sort of national emergency.  
“It’s fine, honestly,” Benedict told him, when his boss summoned him into a private meeting. “I’m a consummate professional, I know Tom is too…wouldn’t let a silly thing like this ruin a professional work relationship. Honest, Sir, I’m fine.”  
“The same can’t be said for Tom,” Richard said, after a pause. “Look, I can’t pretend to know what happened, there’s only so much I can be involved in my employees’ lives but, look, just remember, you boys are friends of mine as well, and I want everything to go smoothly. If that means you not being with Tom any more, so be it- but he’s not happy about it.”  
“He will be,” said Benedict simply, and Richard frowned.  
“What do you mean, how are you so sure?” he demanded.  
“He’ll move on,” said Benedict, cryptically, and later, it dawned on Richard (halfway across the English Channel, as a matter of fact) that he meant James. He smacked his palm against his face, and Dean’s face crinkled across the table at him in concern.  
“What’s up?” he asked.  
“Benedict Cumberbatch,” said Richard, “the big dope.”

**** 

Shaun settled comfortably on the bench beside the oblivious Benedict, whose subtle ginger roots were just beginning to show in the sunlight, and flipped open a packet of cigarettes.  
“Can I offer you one?” he asked, softly.  
“Oh!” Benedict was startled, looked round and smiled in relief. “Hello. You still around?”  
“Looks that way,” agreed Shaun. “I’m looking at flats nearer this area, I like it. Being dumped is a great motivator to jump up the property ladder,” he added wryly. “Oh- sorry, mate.” His embarrassment made him fumble, and the cigarettes fell to the grassy verge. Benedict reached down, ever the gentleman, and their clumsy fingers brushed on top of the cardboard.  
“Can I offer you one?” Shaun said again, not removing his hand.  
“I don’t smoke,” Benedict declined, and swallowed. He edged his hand back, sat back a little straighter, stared across the pathway into the shimmering blue of the lake they sat beside. “But thank you, Shaun.”  
“No problem,” said Shaun, and conversation dwindled. Joggers passed, a handsome golden retriever sniffed Benedict’s ankle and when he looked down at its eyes, he saw Tom’s. “Do you…miss him?”  
“Who?”  
“Who do you think?” Shaun said, nudging him gently. “It’s been two weeks, Ben, no one’s expecting you to be over him.”  
“Well, perhaps I am as over him as he is over me,” Benedict stated, matter of factly, and sniffed. “It doesn’t bother me, it’s the most assertive I’ve ever been. I’m happy, and he’s got James.”  
“Mate, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look at James like he’s looked at you,” Shaun said. “The chap’s got it bad.”  
“Oh shut up,” snapped Benedict, staring with blazing eyes into Shaun’s own surprised ones. “Shut up, and don’t mention him again. That’s clearly not why you’re here.” He seized the other man’s jaw with one hand and dragged him closer. “Is it?” he said, with gritted teeth. The next moment, those teeth were right up against Shaun’s own mouth, in a sloppy, violent kiss completely devoid of romantic undertones. It was the sort of kiss he got from Andrew in his nightmares, the sort he’d never given before- not that Shaun seemed to object. His fingers tangled in Benedict’s hair, then brushed against his fingers where he gripped Shaun’s jaw, and what could have been a struggle ensued, except for the fact they wanted the same thing.  
“Mine’s nearer,” said Benedict, breaking away for a mere second.  
Shaun raised an eyebrow.  
“Mine’s a hotel,” he replied.  
They ended up going to Shaun’s, managing to keep their faces off each other for the fifteen minute walk back to the building in which Shaun was staying temporarily, but as soon as the ornate doors of the lift closed, they were back at it, growling and nipping with teeth that didn’t care if they hurt, marked, scarred, drew blood… The cctv camera in the lift was directly opposite them, and they provided plenty of entertainment for the security guards that evening, but neither of them cared. An older couple walked past as Shaun struggled with his keycard, and saw the way Benedict’s fingers dug into Shaun’s arse as he bent slightly to unlock the door, digging in hard and merciless, and Benedict met their gaze haughtily. Maybe angry exhibitionist sex was a thing now, he thought, and who’d have thought it of him? There certainly was life after Tom, and he intended to plunder its backside like the pirates of old. The analogy made him grin. He’d always wanted to be a pirate.

***** 

Back in France, Richard had checked himself and the boys into the luxurious, exclusive catered villa that his bank balance afforded them. Aidan and Dean saw, the moment they stepped into the opulent marble pillared foyer, why Richard favoured the establishment; the staff were almost entirely comprised of nubile (Dean volunteered the word, Aidan said it was more a womanly description, Dean said since when had women bothered any of them, Aidan said “hush, you had a mother!” and Richard rolled his eyes like he was watching bickering siblings in the playground) young men with glistening torsos and bright eyes and, outlined through their unforgiving yet somehow flattering white slacks, almost uniformly humungous penises. Dean found the sight almost eye watering, while for Aidan it was his mouth that got a little bit wetter, and later on, when he, with his characteristic puppylike gleefulness, sprang into the pool ahead of everyone else, it wasn’t just his two lovers he was seeking attention from. Richard, who was lounging with an unopened novel on the side on an aptly named sun-lounger, felt a pang of worry at the smouldering gaze the Irishman directed at the waiter at the poolside bar (although perhaps smouldering is the wrong word, considering the Aidan who emerged from the sparkling crystal pool was soaked through). Dean seemed oblivious, but Richard’s life experience prodded at his consciousness and asked him, smugly, if maybe this whole polyamorous experience was about to come to the end of its honeymoon period.  
“A champagne top up, sir?” enquired the waiter, and Richard grimaced, nodded, and opened his novel. He had managed to get halfway down the second page when the phone beside him vibrated insistently. As a businessman and a perfectionist, Richard found his phone hard to abandon, found the habit of constant checking up (interference, the less charitable called it) difficult to break. He had it to his ear in nanoseconds.  
“Yes?” brusquely.  
“We have a problem with the trial,” said the irritatingly calm voice of his lawyer, “your accountant- the defendant- he’s done a runner.”  
“What?!”  
“Mark Gatiss,” said the lawyer, “he’s gone missing.”


End file.
